


Synaesthesia

by calacreda



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: DR3? I don't know her, Exiting the Neo World Programme, Multi, Post-Game, Recovery, Senses, Warning is for explicit references to canon violence, fluff for the price of angst, kinda sad kinda silly kinda horny, lots of friendship and crushes, mentions of chiaki - Freeform, other background relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 59,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25516009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calacreda/pseuds/calacreda
Summary: All they have to do is get better.A Post-SDR2 recovery fic, following the development of five pairings, each through a different sense, one per chapter.
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Komaeda Nagito, Koizumi Mahiru/Saionji Hiyoko, Kuzuryu Fuyuhiko/Pekoyama Peko, Mioda Ibuki/Tsumiki Mikan, Sonia Nevermind/Tanaka Gundham
Comments: 54
Kudos: 366





	1. The End of the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Guess what?? It’s another post-SDR2-Jabberwock-Island-waking-up fic! Though not a fandom first, it is -my- fandom first, and in many ways I wish I had not been driven to write a Danganronpa fanfiction in 2020, but then again I didn’t think there would be a pandemic, so whatever.
> 
> This will be in six parts. All are written, but need some editing. The idea is that I explore the post-Simulation recovery of five couples, each through a different sense.
> 
> This is an orientating chapter, which is why it is written so impersonally. The others will be more specifically stylised. All will be taking place within the same time period, just from different perspectives. I’m pretty much ignoring the timeline of the DR3 anime, so it won’t exactly match up to the Future Arc events. Apologies. I also don't have a beta so if there are typos, please let me know!
> 
> The chapters will be as follows:
> 
> Peko/Fuyuhiko – Smell  
> Mahiru/Hiyoko – Taste  
> Hajime/Nagito – Sight  
> Mikan/Ibuki – Sound  
> Sonia/Gundham – Touch 
> 
> Enough from me, hope you enjoy!

First comes the shock.

The air is hotter than any of them remember. The oxygen they were fed had been kept at a significantly lower temperature and humidity than that of a tropical island, so all five fall from their pods coughing and gasping, and all five wait days for the tickling in their throats to dissipate. 

It takes Souda the longest to calm down. It takes Kuzuryuu the longest to walk unsupported. It takes Owari the longest to talk again. It takes Sonia the longest to eat. It takes Hinata the longest to emotionally stabilize.

In fact, Naegi keeps Hinata in hospital confinement for seven days after they exit the Neo World Programme. He has him under 24-hour surveillance in the hope that he is doing the same for Kamakura. On the fifth day of insisting he is well enough to re-join his classmates and getting a firm negative in response, Hinata pickpockets a nurse of her medical scissors. Naegi arrives on the scene just in time to witness him do nothing more than hacking chunks off the bottom of his hair. 

They give him a proper haircut and release him two days later.

Then comes the relief.

Sitting at breakfast feels like slipping easily back into a routine, and despite the eleven empty spaces, the instinctual, animalistic glee at being alive against all odds keeps them in mostly high spirits. Owari begins training again, and insists that they all exercise together in order to put the physical strength back into their bodies. Souda goes back to modifying whatever junk he finds in (what was left of) Electric Avenue, and suggests that if any of them need anything for comfort or convenience, he could flex his mechanic muscles. Sonia is spritely and optimistic, bringing them tea and checking on them all regularly. Kuzuryuu is trying to piece together a picture of what the outside world looks like politically, and though it’s a grim task, he is losing himself in the research. Hinata spends a lot of time alone, constantly tired from crushing Kamakura down whenever he so much as whispers in his head; exhausted but recovering.

Then comes the depression.

No one is coming. The world they know is dead and all they can do is wait for Naegi to remove his head from the chopping block long enough to argue the Remnants’ case. They sit with baited breath on this speck of land, cut off and unaware, and with the Future Foundation withholding enough of their pre-Simulation memories that all they have to go on is a collective feeling of having done something abominable. 

The rest of their classmates are stable but unresponsive. Months go by and hope begins to drain from the survivors. Kirigiri promises an attempt to resuscitate them, but with so much of the Future Foundation’s effort needed elsewhere, it is put on the back burner.

The five students spend a lot of time watching over their comatose friends. An unspoken rhythm begins when they start to notice each other’s visiting patterns, and adjust their own so that they can be alone in the room of the not-quite-dead.

Kuzuryuu sits beside Pekoyama’s pod from sunset to the early hours of the morning, leaving before dawn when he knows Sonia will arrive to talk to Tanaka, or rather  _ at _ Tanaka. Souda’s time in the lab is mostly spent tinkering cautiously with the pods, occasionally attempting a joke about his friends’ unfamiliar appearances to the silent room, or staring off into space while resting next to a prone form. Hinata visits them all diligently, doing the rounds up to three times a day, but never staying long, just long enough to burn their faces, their stats, their names into his head, and remind himself that nothing and no one is worth losing them again. Owari spends the least time in the lab, but she also always goes uncharacteristically quiet when they discuss their classmates’ future, and seems to be the least hopeful about a recovery.

They all have their own ways of dealing with things. 

Then comes the power outage. 

Three and a half months in and a terrible storm hits the island. No one sleeps; hunkered down in their cottages with the tempest outside adding insult to injury. When morning comes and the winds die down, the island is in disarray, with trees uprooted and power lines blown over. They rush to check on their friends. A technician grimly informs them that the power flickered briefly during the night, and although all pods were inactive for a few minutes, the backup generator kicked in and all had remained stable.

With one exception.

Before he says whose pod it is, Hinata already knows. It  _ had  _ to be him. It is  _ always  _ him. A glance at his friends affirms that they all seem to be thinking the same thing.

But it isn’t. Komaeda is as deeply unresponsive as ever, his monitor beeping steadily.

They’d managed to get the system working again but the Imposter, inside their pod resembling someone none of them recognise, is showing no signs of life.

Had they ever known them? Was anything they’d ever shared with the rest of the class real? Or was it just a projection of Togami? Hinata knows Togami now, and the only noticeable difference was the Imposter’s cold but unflinching concern for the group as a whole. They were the Ultimate Impersonator, but had not been able to stop their own kindness leaking through the disguise.

And now they are gone. For good this time. 

The five students stand in silence around the pod. They look peaceful at least, but disorientating in their mystery. They are allowed a few minutes before the lab technicians remove the body. Hinata half expects an animatronic bear to appear and drag it away.

Sonia opens their pod and they all watch with a palpable awkwardness. The sadness of the loss matches the confusion: who were they in the first place? Hinata is so deep in thought that at first he doesn’t notice the gasp.

A malfunction in the system, triggered by the power outage, works miraculously in their favour, like a defibrillator. The Imposter stirs. They open their eyes. They ask where they are. 

And then comes hope. 

It is decided that the system’s glitch can be exploited in such a way that it might bring everyone back from the Simulation. The technicians write to Naegi, asking for permission to terminate the support system in the hope that it will resurrect the nine students still comatose. Permission is - hesitantly - granted. 

All students are hooked up to life support and the system is switched off. 

And then comes the wait. 

While the Imposter had woken up after just under eight hours, it seems that the singularity of the system’s weak spot is irregular in its efficacy. The five survivors ask to be immediately notified when their friends start waking up, and an unstable, terrified excitement at the prospect keeps them on their toes all day.

The Imposter is moved to hospital where they are brought up to speed. When Kirigiri arrives to see the miracle for herself, she recoils at the sight of them in their bed. Although she saw the Imposter put into the Neo World Programme, it is apparently easy to forget how uncanny their imitations are. 

“Who is he? We don’t recognise him.” Hinata enquires after they leave the room.

“Juzo Sakakura. He’s a member of the Future Foundation. I have no idea why they are imitating him, but I forgot that this is how they looked when we captured them.”

No more is said. The Imposter is incredibly quiet during their recovery, whether a trait of Sakakura or shock from a sudden emergence into a world they forgot existed, it isn’t easy to tell. However, they are keen to get up and assist the others. It seems they just want to plough on ahead instead of wallowing, and Hinata can’t blame them.

Next to wake up is Ibuki Mioda. 

She wakes up screaming. It is at 4 am and it causes a panic as the doctor in the on-call room shouts for support and sends a message to the cottages. The other students rush over, and Hinata wrestles with the despair of seeing the always-vivacious Mioda twisting in terror, as well as the wash of desperate affection at simply seeing her alive. She is unhealthily thin and is kept on a drip, her sharp collarbones pushing through the skin of her chest as she gasps in lungfuls of air. Once calmed, she seems happy herself that she is alive. She too is kept for a few days before being brought up to speed, and takes the news of her murder surprisingly well. With her back, the group’s mood lifts immeasurably. 

Then comes the next.

Hinata is actually  _ in  _ the hospital, discussing vital signs with the doctor on duty when Nekomaru Nidai wakes up. At first, they don’t notice, as he seems to come to without altering anybody. Once he acclimatises to the fact that yes, he is alive, and no, he is not still in the Funhouse, nor is he a robot, his booming voice reverberates down the corridor as he announces his presence. Despite the constant strain and damage inflicted on his virtual body, he recovers quickly. When Owari receives the news, she runs from where she was training on Chandler Beach, all the way to the hospital, in record time. She flings herself at Nidai, whose raucous laughter makes Hinata grin so hard it hurts. Nidai ruffles Owari’s hair and assures her that his weakened body will need lots of strengthening. Hinata knows her tears are not caused by some disease this time.

After that the process speeds up. 

Only a few hours after Nidai wakes, everyone assembles in Mikan Tsumiki’s room. 

She is the worst yet for adjustment. Her mania is unpredictable, and she can’t be left unsupervised after two attempts at removing her IV and one attempt at throwing herself out of the window. She screams for Junko Enoshima. She screams for forgiveness. She screams for death. After a very long night, she seems to come back to herself somewhat, and once heavily medicated, they explain the situation and this, counter-intuitively, seems to calm her. On day three, Mioda creeps cautiously into her room. Hinata is with her, as agreed, should things take a turn for the worst. It actually helps, however, as Tsumiki goes from terrifying mood swings and detachment to genuine remorse, sobbing into her bandages (she wears a lot more now than in the Simulation). Mioda, to her credit, is reserved and almost professional, explaining that she bears her no ill-will, and forgives her for her actions in the Simulation. This makes Tsumiki cry harder, but Hinata can see that it’s progress.

As people continue to wake up, Kuzuryuu is the jumpiest of everyone. He is constantly moving, clearly not sleeping, and he spends almost all of his time at the hospital, in one room in particular.

It is no surprise, then, that when Peko Pekoyama wakes up after Tsumiki, he is there with her.

Everything he had wanted to say gets caught in his throat. Pekoyama is silent with shock, and when the medics rush around her, probing her and monitoring her, and when the others gather to greet her, she is still bewildered into muteness. It isn’t until after the excitement dies down that he can sit and talk quietly with her, both stubbornly quelling their emotions to stop them leaking out. He is earnest and she is terrified and embarrassed, but when he takes her hand it seems that perhaps the world ending wasn’t all that bad. Pekoyama adapts well after that, her unrelenting pragmatism making her a perfect patient. She re-joins the group a few days later, while Tsumiki is still under surveillance. She apparently abandons all pretence, and is rarely seen without Kuzuryuu. The others are reluctant to bring up that development.

Next comes Teruteru Hanamura. His heart rate increases at such a pace that he has to be manually resuscitated and for a moment it looks as if he is in serious danger.

Once fully awake, he is miserable. It is jarring to see his usual… _ colourful  _ personality suddenly extinguished, leaving behind only grief and insecurity. Souda is the saving grace of this case, much to everyone’s surprise. He spends time with Hanamura, talking to him carefully, slowly introducing jokes into their conversations. Hanamura gradually stops crying and starts looking to the future. It seems a friend does him the world of good. Sonia thanks Souda with such honesty that Hinata thinks  _ he  _ might start crying as well. It is good to see him recover, and to apologise profusely to the Imposter, who grunts their forgiveness, if a little coldly. From then on, the food they eat together is exponentially better than it was.

Then comes a dry spell. Their medical consultant assures the group that the remaining comatose students are stable and will wake up in their own time, but some of their classmates are getting impatient. Kuzuryuu and Pekoyama are very invested in Koizumi waking up, so they can make amends and maybe find some peace of mind. Sonia begins to go missing for long stretches of time, and talks less at group meals, often getting caught staring into the middle distance blankly, lost in thought. Souda is also getting antsy, more flighty and skittish than usual, and almost always tinkering with something, although the exact cause of his anxiety isn’t clear. 

A major concern is Komaeda. His charts are significantly worse than the others’, and a neurosurgeon informed Hinata that his brain’s wasting wasn’t just caused by the Neo World Programme, but rather is a pre-existing condition. Despite the brain disease being degenerative in nature, it isn’t worsening, but it means that his return to consciousness might be more complicated than the others’. The surgeon also informs Hinata grimly that the chances of the condition worsening increase the longer he remains unconscious.

_ So he wasn’t lying _ , thinks Hinata. 

Mahiru Koizumi is next, waking up in the evening as the hospital activity is winding down. Once everyone is assembled, the first question she asks is where Saionji is.

Koizumi is exceptionally weak. Her body was not in good shape when she entered the programme, and apparently she is suffering symptoms of severe and prolonged sleep deprivation (the memories of causing this are lost to her). She is medicated and kept stable and resting for several days before they tell her what happened. She does not forgive Pekoyama and Kuzuryuu as easily as they’d hoped, and even asks to have them kept out of her room. She is tired and terrified, and Hinata understands. He comforts the pair with the promise that she will come round once the shock of the real world has worn off. If it ever does. She has developed a twitch in her fingers. He can’t help wondering how many horrifying photographs she has taken in the lost years.

After a few more days of anxious peace, Kuzuryuu bursts into the restaurant where his classmates are gathered for breakfast. His face is flushed, he is panting, but he looks…excited? 

By this point, they know the drill.

“Who is it?” Asks Hinata, unable to keep the hope from his voice.

A few seconds of panting in the doorway, Kuzuryuu looks at him and says “Tanaka”.

The back of Sonia’s chair thuds against the ground as it topples with the force of her movement. She is out of the restaurant first, and at Tanaka’s side first. 

He is incredibly tense, his muscles seized up and his eyes wide and haunted. He struggles with getting words out, glancing at all of his assembled classmates in disbelief. His gaze lands on Nidai for several, long seconds. It then moves to Sonia as he stutters out questions. She is restrained, almost professional, for a few seconds, before bursting into tears. Her fists are clenched, her body taught with the effort of not reaching for him. She knows the last thing he needs is to be physically overwhelmed. Souda stands at the back of the group, his lips pressed together in a thin line. Tanaka watches Sonia cry, bewildered. 

He is cold and distant on waking, uncooperative and disbelieving. He asks after Nidai frequently, but will only allow Hinata and Sonia into his hospital room as he recovers. Sonia rarely leaves him alone, and they spend hours sitting in silence. The news that his Devas of Destruction were not with him when they found him deals a hard blow.

When Hiyoko Saionji wakes up, it's almost routine. She is under medical supervision for body dysphoria, but she apparently adapts quickly to her new figure. After wailing for Koizumi for hours, she finally calms down enough to have the situation explained. She remains a little off, distant and pensive, until one by one her classmates come to visit. As soon as Tsumiki hesitantly approaches the bed, Saionji launches herself at the Ultimate Nurse. It takes several people to prise them apart, Saionji hissing and spitting like a feral cat, Tsumiki whimpering. Clearly not everyone can forgive, no matter how relieved they are at being alive. 

Breakfast is busy again. Everyone is thoroughly shaken, but it is a strange sort of terror. Returning from the abyss to a world you destroyed is a complex situation to say the least, but without sufficient memory of their past as Remnants of Despair, some find it difficult not to be jubilant at the return of their friends. Sonia is more chipper than ever, and although Tanaka is even more quiet and closed off than before, it seems that just having him present and conscious is enough to keep her spirits sky-high. The same goes for Kuzuryuu, although he shows it less, and Pekoyama is adapting better than most to abruptly being alive again. The Imposter has yet to settle on a fixed persona, and flits between Togami, Sakakura, and several other members of the Future Foundation that Hinata does not recognise. 

They exist, push on, and make do. They bundle themselves up in each other’s company and try not to look further forward than tomorrow and further back than yesterday in order to survive. They have each other again, and that, for now, is enough.

When Nagito Komaeda eventually wakes up, he immediately goes into cardiac arrest.

Hinata considers that for an Ultimate Lucky Student, this is the least fortunate thing that could happen to him. He is in surgery for almost twelve hours. When he emerges and comes round from the anaesthetic, he has all of his classmates waiting for him. Most are at best uneasy and at worst enraged at his newly conscious state, remembering everything he put them through in the Simulation.

He sits placidly while the situation is explained to him, blinking infrequently enough to set Hinata on edge, and smiling benignly at his classmates who practically fizz with confused discomfort. Once it is finished, he looks straight at Saionji and asks “Could I please have some gummy bears?”.

A beat of surprised silence follows.

“N-no. You can’t. Even if I had any, I wouldn’t give any to you!” Saionji replies, working herself up from apprehension to her usual disdain. 

Komaeda observes her for a second then laughs weakly.

“I understand.”

Hearing that unique and rasping voice sends a shiver down Hinata’s spine.

Nagito has significantly fewer visitors while he recovers than the others did. 

Then they are all awake. Hinata asks Naegi what they can do to help, what they _need_ to do to make amends, to show their gratitude, to justify their existence.

"All you guys need to do is get better." He says, simply.

They are high schoolers in adult's bodies. After the Killing Game, they were older than their years, but now the discrepancy is rectified. They are recognisably the same and yet inescapably different. They are friends twice-over, with a gap in their memories spanning years. They are exhausted minds in broken bodies, learning how to live again.

Now comes the wait.

Now comes the recovery.


	2. Smell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peko and Fuyuhiko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo! Kuzupeko! We love to see it.
> 
> These two are RIFE with backstory potential, and so this came very naturally. Thank you so much for your reviews and kudos and everything - I'm glad you're interested in the rest of the fic!
> 
> P.S. I'm sorry if I'm inconsistent with names and spellings and such - I'm trying to think of how the POV characters would address their classmates, but I get that it might be a bit jarring to switch all the time

He’d put on a brave face and claim he had been elsewhere, but Peko always knew when her young master had been called into his father’s office.

The leader of the Kuzuryuu clan was, as one might expect, a cold and unforgiving man, violently protective of his family, but protective of his own pride above all else. He smoked heavily, and the smell clung to his son’s clothes after he left. If Fuyuhiko’s tense posture and irritable mood weren’t telling enough, the smell of smoke always affirmed that he’d met with his father, and more likely than not, it was for a scolding.

When his sister was killed, he’d slipped and fallen into underage drinking. Peko’s job was to watch and defend, not advise, and although her failure to protect his family and her own troublesome feelings would sit heavily on her chest when he brushed past her in the evening smelling of alcohol, she remained stoic; a silent comfort for his hangover the next morning. 

He’d always hated that; how detached she remained for the sake of duty. At one point in his youth he had gone through a period of despising the sight of her, standing by, unflinching and powerful; a cold reminder of who he was, _what_ he was, and indeed the fact that his father thought he needed a babysitter.

“ _For fuck’s sake, Peko, we’re the same age, just level with me here.”_

_“I don’t understand, young master.”_

_“He’s got you telling him everything, hasn’t he? You’re a spy in your own house, in_ his _own house.”_

_“I am yours and yours alone, young master. I am charged only with protecting you and being your sword. Nothing more is asked of me, and nothing more I shall perform.”_

_“Jesus, whatever, just don’t tell him about this, ok?”_

\- - - - -

Bad smells. Toxins and carcinogens. Addiction and dependency. Peko’s nose became keen in judging her young master’s predicament without overstepping boundaries by asking him. Now all she could smell was antiseptic and humidity.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the feeling of a blade sliding past the skin of her neck, carving through the muscle, slicing tendons and arteries, lodging itself against the top of her spine. She remembers hot, thick blood gushing over her shoulders and caking her chest. She remembers pain so acute and localised she would almost believe that having to feel it is what killed her, that her body shut down because the sensation was too much, and not because her spinal cord was ruptured. She remembers holding him close, heart fluttering with recognition despite everything. She remembers dying somewhat at peace.

And now she’s here.

His jaw is set. He stares blankly like he’s trying to process everything. When she came round he was crying, his body shaking with sobs, his teeth gritted like he was angry. He’s been so gentle with her, not touching her, not jostling or shouting, just warily taking her hand like it was made of cotton candy and wrapping it in both of his, massaging his own living warmth into her. 

Her heart is so heavy. She is embarrassed.

Despite how much needs to be said, they don’t really talk. She talks more with Hinata, in fact, and when she’s finally well enough she asks Nidai to assist her with regaining her strength. There are a surprising amount of pollutants in her bloodstream, the doctors tell her, like she’d been trying to build up an immunity to certain poisons; that, or she had not cared one way or another what got into her system. She is flushed out and flushed back in again.

When they do talk, it’s informative, declarative, and unemotional. She isn’t remotely surprised; her young master was raised in a household that viewed sentiment as weakness, and the chip on his shoulder about his physical stature hadn’t helped him cope with his insecurities. 

_Just being here is enough. Just being here, with him, just having him here, with me, and us both living, and moving forward, is more than enough, and more than I deserve_.

He does try, once, the evening of her first day awake. He brings her water and resumes his place at her side. She drinks. She offers him the glass. He looks surprised. She presses it into his hands because she has noticed that he has not been looking after himself while he has been looking after her. He sighs. He drinks. He swallows heavily. He sighs again.

He moves forward then, perhaps to leave, perhaps to get closer to her, she doesn’t find out, because he thinks better of it and sits back, his hands clasped together, his face tilted downwards.

He says “Peko” softly, as if he has forgotten that she is there.

She says “Yes?”

“You understand, right? You get where we are?”

“I do. We are in the real world, on the real Jabberwock Island.”

“No, not us _…us_ …” He re-emphasises.

“Oh…” She tenses. He senses it. He takes a deep breath in, and he silently curses himself for not having the guts to look at her.

_Always such a damn coward_.

“Peko, I release you from your servitude. I know you thought it would be for life, but you’ve already died for me. I think that counts as a contract fulfilled, right?”

She goes to speak, but his courage is failing, so he powers on.

“I want you to call me Fuyuhiko. I want you to do what you want with your time. I want you to see me as a classmate…or ‘comrade’ or something, since we’re technically fighting a war right now…or even a friend, if you want. I want you to make your own decisions and I don’t want you to follow me around, feeling like you have to protect me because of the sick way my father raised you. Do you hear me?”

Peko swallows, her mouth suddenly dry. To be released from servitude…

She understands that this is his wish. She understands _why_ , even. She feels incredibly reluctant to agree, not just because she still wants to protect him, but because it is all she knows, and she barely knows herself outside of being her master’s tool. She is scared to face the emptiness that losing her position might cause. She is scared that Peko Pekoyama is a sword and only a sword. To sheath it would be to lose any semblance of self she thought she had.

She obeys him, however, as she always has. She knows that the world is different now, and if her trial proved anything it’s that she is not the impartial object she once thought she was. She has weaknesses…she has… _feelings_ …

_Human after all._

“I…agree…young ma-“

He meets her eyes at that. They are full of _something_ , and she is worried that he will cry again.

“- Fuyuhiko.”

He lets out a small, relieved breath, and half-smiles. 

“I know it won’t be easy…adapting and all…but I think you should try…I think we all have to try…”

He pauses, breathes, sits more upright in his chair.

“We all have to be our own person now.”

_He is brave_ , she thinks _, I don’t think he ever did need me, despite his recklessness. His emotions are not weakness._

“Thank you, Fuyuhiko.”

Despite his best efforts, he blushes pleasantly at the sound of his name.

\- - - - -

Even though he _asked_ her to sever her ties to him, Fuyuhiko misses her presence terribly.

Once Peko has recovered, she moves into her cottage as the others have and begins to search for herself. All her memories are muddled and she can’t find a part of her identity that doesn’t come from, or at least isn’t linked to, her ex-master. She takes time to herself to piece it all together, and it leaves Fuyuhiko feeling somewhat without a shadow.

She looks.... _different_. Hell, they all do. He’s seen Peko every day of his life, and to suddenly lose two years is jarring, almost tragic. She’s taller, thinner, her face showing the strain of the life they lived until the Simulation. She stares at his eyepatch, but doesn’t ask, which he is grateful for. They spent a lot of the first few days of her being out of hospital sneaking glances at each other at meals, trying to reconcile their shared history to their new, more mature bodies.

He goes to the beach and sits on the sand, a comfortable distance from the waves, and watches the endless expanse of sea. All of his classmates have woken up now, and are propping themselves up on one another.

He thinks perhaps the world might have ended and it’s just them and this island. He almost laughs at how bitterly ironic that would be; the war between Hope and Despair and all that’s left of humanity’s future is sixteen high school students whose murderous past is mercifully hidden from them. They’re just clinging to this scrap of land, haunted by non-existent memories and the fear that at any moment they could switch back to how they were before, how _she_ made them before.

Owari and Nidai are training a little way down the shore. She has him pinned for a few seconds, despite her much slighter figure, but he throws her off and she lands with a thud a few feet away. She rubs her head then charges again, laughing with glee that borders on manic and is matched with Nidai’s own. He watches their strange dance. He watches Nekomaru ruffle Akane’s flyaway hair, and watches her beam up at the team manager as she throws her arms around his huge chest.

The word ‘carefree’ comes to Fuyuhiko’s mind. Whatever shape Akane and Nekomaru’s relationship might be taking, they seem to have it figured out. The unrestrained happiness of spending time with someone you respect, someone you love, when you thought they were gone forever; that’s what he’s seeing. He almost envies the pair for being several degrees less intelligent than him and Peko. They aren’t caught up in semantics; they just _feel_ and are felt.

It would be nice to feel, he thinks.

The smell of sea salt clings to his nostrils even after he leaves the beach, brushing sand off his suit. It’s like a reminder of the thoughts the waves brought, a nudge towards what he knows he must do.

\- - - - -

It starts slowly, like inching nearer an open flame for warmth, but eventually she returns to his side.

Fuyuhiko sees that the distance was necessary, but she is just as hesitantly eager as he is to be together again. 

It is incredibly awkward at first. They don’t know how to address their new dynamic. He encourages Peko to speak, inviting her into conversation, but he has always done that and sometimes she catches herself censoring her opinion when she knows there is no need to anymore. Instead of blindly agreeing with him, she starts to actually offer her own thoughts. 

“Either way, it’s stupid to keep me in the dark like this. Not that I give a shit about those assholes, but I need to know where I stand. Does my name still hold any weight? What the hell does the power structure look like now?!”

“I thought they had provided you with information about the current circumstance…”

“Yeah, but not enough! They treat me like a damn child. Have they forgotten who I am?! Who I was?! What I’m capable of?!”

“Maybe that’s why they’re being selective about what information we get. Maybe they are scared of us.”

“They should be. I’m still the Ultimate Yakuza, ya know.”

“Of course, _young master_.”

He looks like he’s about to berate her for using the discarded title, but when he looks at her, she’s smiling.

No, she’s _smirking_.

“Are you _teasing_ me?”

“Of course not. I have the utmost respect for your talent. I’m sure the Future Foundation is truly terrified of you.”

“Hey! Just because they have the height advantage doesn’t mean I couldn’t do some damage.”

“I don’t doubt it. You are a grown man now, no longer a mere child.”

“Damn right.”

“On an unrelated note, I heard Hanamura was going to bake cookies for today’s lunch.”

“Really? That’s-“ He breaks off, his mouth open in amused disbelief. “I can’t believe it, _you are teasing me!_ ”

She hides her smile while pretending to scratch her nose. “I would never do such a thing.”

“You _bitch_ .” He says, entirely without malice. He doesn’t think he has ever called her that before, and his surprised smile makes her _actually laugh_. The atmosphere is so jarringly congenial, so unusually light-hearted, that he feels giddy.

If all it takes to make her laugh is expletives, he’s happy to throw more at her in the future.

\- - - - -

He is angry with Mahiru for not forgiving Peko.

He understands, he supposes. If someone killed him he’d be pretty damn pissed at them. But the motive targeted _him_ , it was _his_ sister who was killed first, _his_ family threatened, _his_ revenge enacted. Peko had no agenda other than doing what he wanted, or was too scared to do himself. He didn’t care if he wasn’t forgiven, but he could see that it was bothering her. Now she was no longer a weapon to wield, she had to clean her conscience. Now she was a human being, she had to make friends. 

“What do you want?”

“I wanted to see how you were doing?”

“Yeah, right, back for round two, huh? Not hiding behind your babysitter’s skirts anymore? She break up with you or something?”

Perhaps spending time with Hiyoko has rubbed off on her a bit?

“We both know I’m not gonna kill you.”

Mahiru has turned the back room of the derelict drug store into a makeshift dark room. She was wrist-deep in developing fluid when Fuyuhiko arrived unannounced.

She hangs up another photo to develop. Oddly-lit like this, he thinks she looks rather intimidating. She herself is not entirely recovered of course, and he is wary of her rage.

“Yeah, I know. If you were you’d get Pekoyama to do it.”

He watches her take down other photos that have been hanging up for a while. One is of Tanaka unconscious in his hospital bed. One is of Nidai laughing while Tsumiki ducks to avoid the tea he has inadvertently thrown out of his teacup. One is a truly beautiful picture of Sonia in overalls with her hair tied back, on the docks, watching the Future Foundation’s ship disappearing, framed by a powerful sunset. 

“I want you to know that it was me.”

“Huh?”

“It was my idea. I was the one that was mad at you. When I saw that picture of my sister, I saw red, ya know? I’ve never felt so utterly helpless, so completely unhinged, and I did what I’ve been taught I had to do; I sought revenge. It was me that went to Peko, me that picked the murder weapon, me that kept quiet after everyone found your body.”

Mahiru has paused, gloved hands stationary in the glossy liquid, staring at him, paling slightly at the memory.

“I’m the reason you can’t sleep without worrying you’ll never wake up. I’m the reason you get ghost pains in the back of your skull. I’m the reason you fucking died. Not Peko.”

She looks like she might be sick, and Fuyuhiko is worried that he’s gone too far.

“I spoke to Souda. He remembers it differently.”

“What?”

“She didn’t _just_ follow orders. She _wanted_ to kill me. For _you_ . And now you want me to blame _you_ for _her_ actions. Geez.” She strips off her gloves almost aggressively. The strange light reflects off the shiny skin of many scars that mar her arms. He’s seen enough to recognise them as slowly-fading chemical burns. He doesn’t want to think about how she got them.

“I don’t have to forgive either of you.”

“No…no you don’t…”

She sighs. The Fuyuhiko she knew is not the one in front of her now. Souda had also told her about his change of heart after Peko’s death, and his attempts at repentance.

“Now listen, don’t go slitting your stomach open again or anything, I think I’ve seen enough blood to last a lifetime.”

“Wait, how did you –“

“I think you _are_ sorry, Kuzuryuu. I also don’t think you’d do it again. And I’m sorry too. I am _so_ sorry for what happened to your sister. I don't remember it but I know if I did, I would like to think I would try to stop it. Still, killing doesn’t solve killing, and the dead aren’t brought back by more death.” 

“I know that. I regret what I did. A lot. And I deserve your hatred.”

She sighs. “I don’t hate you.”

“Really?”

“Nah. I don’t have the energy. I’m sick of despair. I’m not saying I’m holding a grudge, Fuyuhiko, and I’m not ignoring Peko to make her miserable. It’s just…taking a while to forget, you know? It’s gonna be a process.”

“You mean…you think you might…one day…forgive us?”

She observes him for a minute, watching his honesty for cracks and weak spots, and finding none. The strong smell of chemicals is burning his eyes.

“Yeah…one day, maybe…”

“I wouldn’t deserve it, but thanks all the same.”

“I make no promises, but if the others can forgive their murderers, then I should try to as well. We need each other now. And...yeah...I think you are sorry.”

“I am. More than I can say.”

She nods. The atmosphere is still cold, but he can feel the rope around his chest loosening slightly.

_I did good. I made amends…sort of,_ he thinks.

\- - - - -

Watching everyone else recover does wonders for Peko. Fuyuhiko can’t believe how strong she is. He didn’t die, and he’s still struggling with everything, despite having an almost four-month head start. She eats regularly, she is polite and pleasant with others, she helps wherever she can, and she’s showing no signs of major instability like some of the other students. 

_So what’s holding him back?_

It would be nice and comfortable, but he knows he can’t lie to himself anymore. He remembers Peko’s execution like it was yesterday, and he dreams about it more than any other horror he witnessed in the Simulation. 

_Damn, I’m so pathetic. I’ve cried more in the last few months than I have in my whole life_.

He thinks it must have always been this way, but he’d pressed it down so far that he couldn’t see it. He thinks of watching her mature with him, watching her hair grow long and her shape change, watching the glitter in her eyes harden. They weren’t kids anymore. They weren’t servant and master anymore, either.

_We never were. There was always something different. What did my old man expect?!_

How could he not feel this way? She was always there, sturdy and calm but as clueless about the world as he was. She was in all his memories, the best and the worst, always his first port of call, the first person he’d speak to every morning, the first place he’d look to in a crisis. He felt like he was taking advantage, using his position of power to leer at her or something, but he’d always been professional, and always believed she would never, _could_ never, feel the same.

He guesses he’d been wrong.

It’s Aoi Asahina, of all people, that really hammers it home.

It’s late, and she’s getting the boat back the following day. He hasn’t seen Naegi in a while, and she insists that he is trying to earn them a pardon. They all have an important meeting at headquarters in the diary, and are compiling evidence for their arguments. Fuyuhiko tries not to be terrified. 

She arrives at his table with a cup of tea for herself. He sits with his own, flicking through one of the few files Kirigiri allows them. He’s read this one before…several times.

The pleasant aroma of her tea draws his attention as she sits down. Green tea, he thinks, maybe lemongrass?

“Hi, Kuzuryuu.” She says. He likes Asahina, but her chipper attitude grates on his nerves occasionally.

“Hello, Asahina. What do you want?”

She’s used to his curt tone by now. “You look a little blue, I was wondering if there’s something on your mind?”

The only thing that’s been on his mind recently, despite the whole end-of-the-world thing, is Peko. He won’t even try to deny that.

“No, nothing. I’m fine.”

Her lips twist in a way that makes her look younger than she is. It reminds him of Saionji. 

“Are you sure?”

“Uh huh.” He goes back to reading. It didn’t sound massively convincing to him, but he thinks he might have gotten away with it. 

Several minutes of silence pass before she speaks again.

“I get what you’re going through.”

He looks up from his reading. “What?”

“I understand. It’s so difficult. A killing game really kicks all of your emotions into overdrive and you’re not sure if they’re real or if you’re just running out of time.”

It strikes a chord, but he’s immediately annoyed. 

“That’s presumptuous. How the hell would you know anything about my situation?” 

This would usually cause a mild-mannered person like Asahina to recoil, but being around Togami and Fukawa, she’s clearly used to it, and just smiles.

“I was in a similar one, I suppose. Of course, yours is different. Worse, even. I know you have a history outside of the Killing Game, but you’re probably wondering if it’s worth the risk, right? Even if the feelings have been there all along?”

_How the fuck does she know so much?! Has someone been talking to her?_

“You have no idea what you’re talking about. What’s it to you, anyway? You think you know what’s going on? You don’t have a clue, because nothing’s going on, so don’t fuck with me.” He hisses.

Clearly seeing him so riled up so quickly confirms her theory. She smiles sadly, but lowers her head in respect, and is silent for a few moments.

Just when he goes back to reading, reeling and uncomfortable, she pipes up again.

“It happened to me in the Killing Game, although we’d never met before. I think that’s why I was so scared…because I didn’t know anyone, and no one knew me. I didn’t know who to trust, or who to suspect, but looking back, I survived by following my instinct.”

_There’s a lot about her that reminds me of Akane_ , he thinks to himself, while trying desperately to block her out. His curiosity gets the better of him though, and he peeks up at her with his one good eye.

“Obviously there is a lot more at stake, bigger fish to fry, whatever, but you have been given a _gift_ , Fuyuhiko, and I’ll be damned if I watch you let it go to waste.”

Her change of tone takes him by surprise, and he unintentionally starts paying attention.

“A ‘gift’?! What the hell do you mean?!”

Asahina leans forward, like she’s telling him a wonderful secret.

“She’s _back_! You got her back! She’s here again, and you can start out fresh. You gotta take this second chance!”

He scoffs, despite his blush.

She softens. “I could have easily died there. I went through so much, just like you. I suffered more than I ever thought I would, more than I ever thought I _could_ endure, and part of me thinks, no, part of me _knows_ I would do it all again if I got a second chance, like you do.”

She sighs, and then she looks so sad Fuyuhiko is possessed by the sudden urge to take her hand or something equally stupid. 

“I should have followed my instincts further. I should have _done_ something. If only I’d opened up, if only I’d taken my chance, maybe… _maybe_ …”

_Things would have been different –_ it hangs unspoken in the air.

When she meets his eyes again, there are tears in hers. 

“Please, Fuyuhiko. You gotta do something. I know you must be feeling the same, like she’s gonna go away again, and so I’ve gotta give you a push. You could lose this chance, just like the last time, and with so much at stake there is no point in living with regrets.” She smiles a sad, watery smile, and laughs a little at herself.

“Perhaps I’m just projecting. Makoto is best at this inspirational stuff.”

He allows himself a small smile.

“I’m still pissed, but since you seem to know so much already, I’ll say thanks. You’ve actually given me…a lot to think about.” He says, because it’s true.

She swipes at the corners of her eyes and takes a deep breath.

“What can you expect? Under all that pressure, in _those_ circumstances, with all those hormones going wild? People are bound to fall in love. I often think it would be better if we didn’t, but that’s not how humans work.” Her voice is sweet. Her tea smells like honey as she sips it down to the dregs.

She gets up to take the cup to the kitchen, then as she passes him on her way out, she pats his shoulder encouragingly. 

“Believe in yourself, Kuzuryuu. You survived the Killing Game, what’s a little crush got on that?”

He laughs ironically. Before she leaves he calls out to her.

“So, this guy you liked. He died in your Killing Game, right? And you never got to tell him?”

Her smile is heart-wrenching, and if he were anyone else he might have tried to hug her.

“Yeah, that’s right. Guess I missed my chance. If you died in our game, you stayed dead.”

“Which one was he?”

She smiles again, the kind where she screws her eyes shut, but he can tell it’s to hide whatever is swimming in them.

“Her name was Sakura Oogami, and she was the strongest and gentlest person I’ve ever met. She was backed into a corner because of people’s perception of her. They thought she was a threat, they thought she was indestructible, because of how she looked, but I thought she was beautiful. There is not a day goes by that I don’t miss her, and that I don’t regret ever leaving her side.”

_Oogami, huh? The Orge?! Guess I misjudged her too. Hell, guess I misjudged them both._

“Remember what I said, or I’ll bring it up again.” She warns, and Fuyuhiko watches her leave, adding another name to the ever-growing list of people braver than him.

\- - - - -

“Hey.”

“Good evening, are you ok?”

_Like hell am I ok,_ he thinks.

“Yeah, fine.” He says. “I missed you at dinner?”

“My apologies, I should have told you where I was.”

The habit is hard to break, clearly. 

“I didn’t _need_ to know where you were…I just…missed you, is all…”

She’s folding her clothes and putting them in her drawer. Her cottage is disconcertingly neat. The neutrality of her expression is familiar, but there’s a layer of warmth to it that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to.

She observes him for a moment, before deciding to be candid.

“Whatever we did before the Simulation has taken its toll. I have put myself on a strict training regime to regain my strength and ability.”

She’s not allowed a sword, he knows, but there are several sticks and pipes propped up against the wall by her bed that she must be using to practise with. Fuyuhiko almost asks her not to push herself too hard, before realising that she is likely doing so to keep her mind occupied, and she probably wouldn’t take his advice on the matter anyway. 

“That’s…cool, I guess…”

_Real smooth, Kuzuryuu_. God, how long has he been this awkward? He’s spent his life talking to her, why is it weird now? He needs to get his damn priorities straight.

“Is there something the matter?”

_No. Yes. I can’t tell you. I don’t understand. Please look at me. Please don’t make me do it because I’m still a coward, like I’ve always been._

“Huh? Uh, no! No, I just wanted to…see you.”

“Oh?” Red eyes widen. Her gaze is piercing, but he knows it isn’t her fault. She turns to face him properly. She looks a little confused.

“Yeah, see how you’re doing and all. I’m glad you’ve had a productive day.”

This small talk is painful, but it’s _something_ , and he isn’t giving up that easily.

“I have, thank you. H-how was your day? Are you still prying Kirigiri for clues?”

“Yeah, it’s beginning to make a bit more sense. It’s not great out there, and of course they still won’t tell me what we all did as… _Remnants_ …but I think maybe there’s a chance…I think Hope might actually be…winning?”

She smiles. She doesn’t do that often, he’s noticed, since she is so serious most of the time. It’s a small tug at the corner of her lips, and Fuyuhiko follows it with his eyes before he even realises it.

“That is good to hear. I understand how you feel, you always hated relying on other people when you thought you could do the job yourself.”

She’s right, and it irritates him that no matter how much he bullshits and feigns anger or wisdom, she cuts straight through to the core of him. 

“Well I just think they should maybe give us a _bit_ more responsibility. Most of us aren’t showing any signs of relapse, and I know it’s a lot to ask for a second chance, but it’s been months and we wanna help. Plus, who’s more qualified than us to take Despair down?”

She nods. She has heard this before, of course. She has heard his protestations and opinions when they eat together, walk together, help with the post-storm clean up side by side, but if it makes him feel more in control, she’ll let him rehash it all.

“You are getting cabin fever. That is understandable.”

“And you’re not?”

“I was raised to be adaptable. My environment and general circumstance are second to my sense of duty.”

“Your ‘duty’? I hope you’re talking about recovering and rebuilding.”

“Among other things.” She says, turning from him. He sighs.

“Damnit, Peko, you better not be on this again.”

“On what?”

“It’s not your duty to look after me anymore, remember? You’re your own person now.”

“It will always be my duty to look after you. And you know this.”

Despite her voice staying level and her gaze never wavering, Peko is betrayed by the faint colouring of her cheeks. 

_I cannot have this argument with her again_ , Fuyuhiko thinks.

“Peko, how many times, I’m not your duty. All this time, even when we’re not together, you’ve been watching me, haven’t you?”

“Can you blame me? Old habits die hard, Fuyuhiko. I don’t believe it is a bad thing for me to be concerned for your welfare. I’ve stopped taking your orders, I’ve stopped referring to you as my master, I’ve stopped looking to you for all my opinions, isn’t this enough? Is it not acceptable for me to worry about you? To look out for you? Because if you are asking me to stop doing that, I am afraid I cannot.”

“I don’t need you to do that!”

“I know, but I do so anyway. I worry anyway. I move to protect you anyway. There is not a fibre of my being that is not always in tune with your safety. I cannot change my nature.” He is momentarily stunned by her rawness.

“You’re trying to grow, right? Trying to be normal? Trying to think for yourself? I thought we proved in the Simulation that you _are_ human, so why are you still doing this ‘tool’ thing?” He forces himself not to look embarrassed at bringing up the emotions revealed at her trial.

“I am perhaps not a tool any longer. I worry for you as your f-friend…” She manages. 

_Now, that’s new_ , he thinks. She has never referred to him in such a way before.

“My friend?”

“Yes…if that is…agreeable…”

She is a head taller than him. He wishes she would sit down so he could feel slightly more in control.

“Of course it is. We _are_ friends. We…sort of always have been, right?”

She blinks slowly. Her eyes bore through him. He wonders if she knows how a casual gaze from her is so intense it can freeze him in place.

“I…”

He doesn’t want to hear her stumble through what she has to say. 

“I mean, I know it was…weird…but I’ve always appreciated your company and everything. I know you had to spend time with me but…we got along, right?”

“Um…y-yes. I…enjoyed spending time with you too.”

He stops to watch her watch him. He wets his lips.

“Ok, then it shouldn’t be difficult to be friends.”

She nods. It’s so awkward. He fights the urge to bolt. Progress is progress, and the embarrassment is worth it.

“Would you…”

She snaps to attention on instinct, Fuyuhiko thinks. There is a hunger in her eyes that pisses him off. _A desire for orders_ …

“If you don’t mind…in fact only if you want to…”

What was he asking again?

It’s all too much all at once. He thought he’d never see her again. He wants to burn her image onto his retinas. He wants to keep her unnerving stare, her upright attitude, her terrifying stillness, her cold beauty, near him forever. He wants to pour his heart out without examining the contents first. He wants to scream at her, and for her to scream at him. He wants to go all the way back to the beginning and rearrange things so perhaps they could have known each other in a normal way. He wants to change the past so that they could just care for each other like normal kids do.

But more than anything he wants to have her near. He wants to hold her, and be held. They’ve never done that before.

“Would you come over here?”

She thinks for a second before she obeys, and he is relieved. Maybe she saw the pathetic look on his face. The new dynamic is giving him whiplash and he doesn’t know what is supposed to make him happy and what he should be hoping changes.

When she gets near enough, he reaches for her before he wimps out. She freezes at his touch, and a second later he _feels_ the sigh she lets out. It’s entirely unchartered territory, but he wraps his arms around her and presses his face into her shoulder. She does the same, slowly and timidly, like she’s teaching herself how.

Peko remembers when they’d spent a week and a half camping out in the country when his father insisted they go hunting to toughen him up. She remembers lying beside Fuyuhiko, guarding him all night, listening to him breathing, inhaling the scent of his shampoo when their heads were close. He doesn’t smell like woodbine anymore, but rather plain and clean, as she imagines she does, considering the standard issue shampoo they’re all given. 

She feels her heart constrict like the traitor it is. How can someone raised to be cold run so hot? How is it that, after removing all her emotions, she seems to have an overabundance of them after all?

Whatever he was going to say, he forgets, as they stand in the embrace for just a little while longer…

\- - - - -

Koizumi and Saionji announce their plans for a party the following morning.

“It’s the new year, didn’t you hear? We should welcome it in! New beginnings, and all that crap.” Akane seems to have been easily persuaded.

“Everyone will need to pitch in if it’s gonna be ready in time. Me and Hiyoko are gonna split you up into teams and give you tasks. You better chip in, all of you!” Mahiru gives the assembled classmates a firm stare. Hiyoko nods at her side.

“Luckily for us, you losers have already paired yourself up! Well, mostly, whoever is left has to go with Souda!” Hiyoko giggles. 

“N-no fair! Why don’t I get to pick?!” The aforementioned mechanic protests.

“Because _you_ don’t have any friends!” 

“Hiyoko, enough. Right. First is the beach. Stuff keeps washing up and getting buried in the sand, and I don’t want anyone to hurt themselves on the debris. We need to scope the place out for danger. Hinata, can you do that? And with Komaeda because if he tries anything, I trust you to deal with it.”

“Yeah, or no one else wants to deal with him.” He mutters under his breath next to Fuyuhiko. Nagito seems unbothered, blinking and smiling serenely.

“Owari and Nidai, I need you to do the heavy lifting. Tables, chairs, awnings, wood for a stage, that sort of stuff.”

Akane beams and Nekomaru’s shout of “LEAVE IT TO US” vibrates along the breakfast table.

“I’m gonna put Mioda and Tsumiki on tech. Actually, we’ve found somewhere to slot you in, Souda! You help them with the electronic stuff. Hanamura on food, of course, and I want…” Mahiru trails off when looking at the Imposter, struggling to find something to call them. “ _…you_ to help with security.” 

The Imposter grunts and nods. 

“Tanaka and Sonia can do decorations. I know you might find it _demeaning_ , oh Overlord of Ice, but you’re the most extra of everyone, and I think you’ll actually enjoy it.”

“Alright!” Sonia says brightly. Gundham presses his mouth into the folds of his scarf, his usual glare in place, but voices no complaints.

“And Kuzuryuu and Pekoyama, can you guys be in charge of fireworks? It’s the New Year, after all, we need to welcome it with a bang. I trust Peko will be very careful.”

“Sure, fine, whatever.”

\- - - - -

He can’t fucking believe he’s out looking for fireworks again.

It was evident, as only the five ‘survivors’ tensed up at Mahiru’s wish for fireworks, that she was unaware of, or at least unbothered by, how Nagito’s murder happened. Fuyuhiko thought there would be no problem, but when they actually got their hands on fireworks, it all came back rather suddenly. He wasn’t gonna wimp out, though. _That didn’t happen. That wasn’t real. In fact, he should be happy to see fireworks, and know that they’re not bombs._

He carries a box along the beach. Peko walks a little ahead of him carrying a box of her own. They walk in silence. The waves break on the shore. The sand shifts underneath their feet. The smell of fresh rainfall hangs heavy in the humid air. The weather here is unpredictable, and Fuyuhiko wonders at how it can be so muggy and tropical in December, before realising that he has no way to prove that it actually _is_ December, and the date is another thing he has to trust the Future Foundation about.

Peko has woven her hair into a single braid this evening. It is neat and composed, but also beautiful in the low light; silvery and fluid… _like Peko in general_ …

He stops himself before his thoughts can go somewhere even more sappy and lame. 

They plant the box in the sand near where the grass starts, away from the threat of the tide. Peko drops to her knees to bury the corners deeper, pulling up sand around the sides so it stays put and unwinding the fuse. The air is still heavy. Fuyuhiko watches her work, standing uselessly by her side, his own box taking both arms to carry and making him feel like a child.

Once she’s finished she looks up at him. He swallows ( _hopefully not visibly_ ). The sunset flashes in her glasses. He is still not used to how much older she looks.

“Are you alright?”

“…yeah.”

She stands, and the previously inverted height difference is righted again. She scans him from the inside out and he’s surprised to find that he lets her. Standing on this beach at twilight, on a mostly-abandoned island as the hell they created rips the world apart beyond the horizon, but it takes him by surprise how his whole focus, his whole being, can centre so powerfully on a single individual.

A mountain appears between them. A history, a lifetime, of skewed companionship, of hesitant affection dwarfed by ingrained hierarchy, makes itself evident in a way that is almost physical. The weight of their shared past sits like stone, separating them; how could it have been so complicated and yet so simple? How could the strangest and coldest arrangement nurture something so preciously human?

Unchartered, unspoken, unsurprising. 

“We should put yours somewhere in the trees.”

He starts from his reverie.

“Huh? Won’t that start a fire?” His voice is so painfully soft; low and dreamy and apparently not wanting to change back anytime soon.

“We’ll find somewhere with gaps in the canopy.” She says, equally gently, like they’re supporting the moment between the two of them, careful not to drop it.

Once they find an appropriate spot and place the box, Fuyuhiko’s thoughts could not be further from the party. If he thought Peko looked beautiful in the sunset, she’s even more hypnotising slinking through the shadows of the trees. He envies her grace, her silent movement, her easy composure. He can’t believe he ever took her calmness for detachment. She is not cold; she is stoic, but so intense she burns. 

And she’s _here_. She’s alive. He’s not sure if it’s hit home yet that he didn’t lose her; she’s breathing, she’s talking, she’s with him again…

He’s lost in thought as she moves closer. She looks concerned; he realises he was zoning out. His heart stutters when she gets close enough to raise her hand to his face. He wonders what she’s doing, before her fingertips trace the edge of his eye patch. He watches every idiosyncrasy as her expression tightens, brow furrowing.

He remembers the Simulation.

“I don’t know how it happened, but it wasn’t you.”

Her bright eyes flick to his. She seems a little taken aback at his ability to read her thoughts. 

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

He doesn’t, of course, but he wants her to forgive herself.

“Well if you don’t remember how it actually happened, then the only memory you have of it happening is…”

The pain was very real in the Simulation. He remembers blood mixing with the fluid from his punctured eyeball, remembers it dripping down his cheek, remembers barely caring, remembers blacking out in her arms.

“You should never have tried to protect me. You knew the rules; resisting was futile.” She murmurs. She feels closer, but it’s hard to tell in the growing darkness. He can hear the distant chatter of his friends gathering on the beach for the party. Peko’s fingers have drifted from his eye patch to the skin of his cheek, growing warmer under her touch, and he’s not sure if she’s aware that she’s done it.

“That’s what we do,” he says, after a beat, “We protect each other.”

This surprises her, and he hears her breath hitch. She withdraws her hand, but he grabs it before it is gone completely. The quiet almost hums. The waves crash. She can smell the freshness of the forest, the salt of the shore, the mint on his breath. No smoke. No alcohol. No sanitizer or blood. Just him and the island.

She watches him watching her.

In a burst of confidence, he decides that since they never seem to meet each other in the middle, he’ll risk the journey to her. He pulls her closer by the hand in his grasp and kisses her like he’s been meaning to for as long as he can remember.

She tenses on reflex, and her teeth dig into his lip, but he persists. He’s annoyed that she’s taller than him, annoyed that he’s not some suave Prince Charming who can sweep her off her feet like she deserves, annoyed that it’s taken them so long to admit it, and annoyed that he’s annoyed at a time like this. 

And then she’s holding his cheek. Her fingers are curled in his hair. She’s moving closer. She’s kissing him back. 

Something snaps in Peko, and her grip turns to iron. The kiss is full of needles, pinpricks of pain in the warmth, an exercise in agony, turning words they won’t say into actions. He didn’t expect Peko to take control, but he’s not complaining, and he’s rooted to the spot, burned to the core, scared and victorious, standing in the trees of some insignificant island. The world may have changed, but Peko is a constant, and he feels it now.

She’s like lava; solidifying on the surface but molten at the core. He’s in awe of her power, and he feels it in droves. She’s so unbelievably potent, strong in mind and will and constitution, and as passionately as she fights, she feels. Her loyalty was fierce and unwavering, but he’d mistaken her strength for professional detachment. She was never impartial, she never followed because she was instructed; she was loyal because she loved. He can feel the devotion in the pressure of her fingertips, the press of her hips, the demands of her tongue. He feels every ounce of frustration and emotion she’s forced down and swallowed silently her entire life. She kisses him like it’s erupting out of her. 

He feels as small as he is. No…smaller…he feels dwarfed by her vastness…humbled by the scale of her…

He’s never kissed anyone before, but he hopes he’s getting the hang of it because he doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing and he has a feeling it’s not just dark behind his eyelids and he’s vaguely aware that they have a party to attend. He feels the muscles of her back beneath his palms, the rush of her breath as their chests press together, the flush of her skin against the tip of his nose.

All she is aware of is his smell. _So close_ . So much closer and so much more overwhelming than she ever thought it could be. _His_ smell. She feels tears well up in closed eyes and breaths him in as deeply as she can.

_Finally._

“You don’t need to protect me anymore…” He manages, in the tiny space between their mouths.

“I want to. Please let me.”

He lets out a small, soft laugh. It flutters against her lips. She smiles.

\- - - - -

No one is surprised because no one is told.

After the New Year celebration, they converge into something resembling a couple, little by little, so the others barely notice.

In fact, some people had assumed they’d been… _together_ …for a while.

She curls around him under the covers where they lie, tangled, in his bedsheets. She finds that he wants to _cuddle_ more than she expected he would. She catches him with his forehead against her skin, his eyes closed, like he’s grounding himself in the present, and she suspects he still doesn’t quite believe she isn’t dead. 

“You know when I first knew?”

“Excuse me?”

“You snuck me sake, remember? When we were fourteen and I asked you to go and get some sake from the kitchen because I knew I’d be caught and you wouldn’t? You did it anyway, even though you knew my father would punish us both if he found out. And then we drank it together. Well, I drank half the bottle and you only had like a cup, but it was the first time I realised that you were my best friend as well as my bodyguard. I remember you opened up more that night. I realised you were a person, I guess. I think I was in love with you then.”

It’s strange and wonderful, hearing him say that. She never thought they’d talk like equals; never thought he’d want to, and never thought she’d be ok with it.

“Of course, I didn’t _know_ it. Didn’t _really_ know it until you took the bat out of my hands and killed Koizumi. But, that’s ‘cause I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t say that.” She says, rolling her eyes. His newly humble attitude is sometimes too far in the other direction to his arrogance.

He says nothing. She feels the point of his chin dig into her arm, and despite everything, is happy.

“I never had a moment like that.”

“Huh?”

“I mean to say, I had no realisation. Not properly anyway. For a while I resented you, maybe even hated you, as I know you hated me. We were forced together, it’s natural to rebel.”

He tenses next to her. His arms are around her and she can feel his heartbeat, and she never wants to let go. She supposes she has nothing to hide now.

“I never realised because I was always this way. You have been curt and cold and even cruel to many, but never to me. I saw your frustration and isolation and the pressure your family put on you, and I watched you lash out, but you never once directed it at me. I respected you for that. You just wanted a friend, I think…you only ever wanted a friend…and so did I. I think I’ve always loved you. I think I’ve always seen the heart of you.”

Fuyuhiko is still not used to hearing her talk for so long unprompted. She’s still reserved, but she’s opening up. They’re both still traumatised, but they’re healing. They both still don’t really know who they are, but they’re discovering it a bit more every day. They have no idea what will happen in the future, but at least they’re looking forward. Even the absence of Hope is better than the presence of Despair. 

Although, they’ve never felt more hopeful.

Peko presses her face against his head, hugging him closer to hide the embarrassed pride of their shared vulnerability. He doesn’t smell like tobacco, alcohol, antiseptic or blood. He doesn’t smell like Despair or standard-issue shampoo, or general neglect.

He smells like when they went camping and she slept close to him. He smells like when they drank sake underage and under his family’s nose. He smells like when she patched up his wounds after a fight he refused to tell his father about, or when she got her first period and he didn’t know why she was so upset but they played chess to take her mind off it. He smells like when he stood between her and his father when he accused her of making him soft. He even smells like the last time she held him, before the blackness, with a hundred swords pointed at her and her only concern being that she hurt him.

He smells like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't resist slipping some Sakuraoi under the radar


	3. Taste

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is shorter. Their dynamic is really interesting but I haven't explored these two much as a couple, so I just went with my gut and a load of head canons I've built up. 
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has reviewed! I think it'll be a chapter a week until they're all up. I'm really glad you're enjoying it.
> 
> I feel like this is a bit darker than the last chapter? Some of the themes are a bit unhealthy, so be warned. Also sex. Nothing too explicit, but there’s sex.

_ Cute! Adorable! You sweet little thing! Look at her precious little hands, her chubby cheeks, her innocent smile! Bless her! She’s an angel…a cherub! _

__

_ I just wanna eat her up! _

__

She stands and stares at herself for hours these days.

There’s only so much mental/physical reconciling one can do over a month, and although she’d feign anything to get out of hospital, Hiyoko forgets what she looks like every time she turns her back to the mirror.

She’s grown a foot and a half, but she doesn’t remember it. She woke up a foot and a half taller than she went to sleep. Practically, it means she constantly bangs her forehead against low-hanging branches or pots in the kitchen. Psychologically, it means she somehow feels she’s lost the edge she used to have on her classmates. Now she’s just like them. Now she is average.

She hates her new body. She knows logically that no one gave it to her, and that she should be thankful that she actually got to see herself grow up, but she resents a living shell that is unfamiliar to her. Her child-like figure garnered her fame and appreciation. Her rounded, cherubic face made her adorable and easily loved. Her apparent innocence and harmlessness made it easier and more rewarding to hide the venom beneath.

And now she stands, prodding and pulling, scrutinising and criticising, this body that is both hers and not hers. 

She never wore a bra, but now she has to, and she hates that as well. If tying her kimono was a pain before, it’s even worse now that nothing seems to sit on her newly-discovered waist properly. Her face has narrowed and lengthened, her hair has grown too long, she’s growing hair in places she didn’t even think to expect, and she’s feeling things she’s never felt before, but…like…all at once.

It’s like puberty realised she’d managed to bypass its symptoms and dropped all of them on her in a single, unbearable load.

She’s beautiful. She can see that. She never looked ahead when she was younger, but she’s still aware of what beauty looks like. Sure, she’s not as beautiful as Sonia, she’s not as interesting-looking as Ibuki, and she’s not as  _ attractive  _ as Peko, but she’s conventionally good-looking, and she doesn’t know what to feel about that.

_ Pretty little thing…you’re so tiny…you’d fit in my hand, I swear it…hey, Little Miss Saionji, aren’t you a treat…diamonds come in small packages, my sweet…but you’re a big girl really, aren’t you? _

__

_ A big girl, really… _

__

She’s bigger now. It’s like her mind’s been wiped blank, too. She doesn’t torture insects, and she reluctantly eats what she’s given. She learns to tie knots and shower alone. She learns to be modest, to be ashamed, and she learns to interpret a glance. She learns what she should have learnt years ago. She understands that a childish body fed a childish mindset.

Her arrogance rears its head less frequently than she’d expect.  _ This is what you wanted; to be big _ . It could be worse, she supposes. And in some ways, they’re all strangers in their bodies…

She strokes the chemical scars on Mahiru’s arms, light brushes of her fingertips. 

“Don’t you remember?”

“Not really.”

“Do they hurt?”

“No. They’re scars.”

“Not even, like, ghost pains?”

“Nah.”

She pinches the damaged skin, hard, and Mahiru squeaks.

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know. I thought they should hurt. They look like they should hurt.”

Mahiru’s eyes are full of tears, and Hiyoko feels guilty and satisfied all at once.

\- - - - -

At the beginning she only wants Mahiru. She bawls her eyes out for days after she wakes up, and although she stomachs listening to Hajime, it’s only really for information. She likes Asahina and doesn’t like Kirigiri. She screams until her throat is raw and doesn’t want to bathe because she can’t stand the sight of her new body. She realises quickly, however, that she’ll be stuck in hospital, constantly watched, if she doesn’t try to adjust.

It isn’t an easy process. She’s one of the last to regain consciousness and the fact that many of the others are already somewhat settled makes her feel even more isolated. She’s being kept away from Mikan, which annoys her, so she rips apart two of her pillows instead. 

Mahiru’s way of coping is photography. She takes photos of her classmates and spends most of her time in the new darkroom in the drug store. She visits Hiyoko briefly in the first week, but never stays long, leaving before the next fit of crying happens. It’s cruel, and her heart aches, but she talked to Hajime and they decided the best way to let Hiyoko get reacquainted with herself was to leave her mostly alone. 

Nine days later, with little to no contact with anyone outside her cottage, Hiyoko emerges. She’s changed into a kimono that fits her. She’s brushed her now much longer blonde hair back into a single tail. It is the first time many of her classmates have seen her without the tell-tale blotches on her cheeks, and instead of being wet, her eyes are somewhat harder. She sits down at breakfast without a word. 

\- - - - -

“Hiyoko are you alright? You haven’t eaten properly in days.”

“I’m fine. It’s the sight of Tsumiki’s face putting me off my food.”

Mahiru says nothing, and continues to press her with her gaze.

The chink in Hiyoko’s armour can only be probed by Mahiru. She sighs and slumps backwards in her chair. Her expression turns from haughty to pitiful.

“Everything tastes gross.”

“Huh?”

“It’s like…ash. I’m n-not just being fussy, like Hanamura said. I…I can’t eat any of this…” She bites her lip furiously. 

Hiyoko never ate well in the Simulation, preferring e-numbers covered with sugar over something balanced and more healthy, but she never mentioned it was because she felt she  _ couldn't  _ eat anything else.

“Is this a new thing?”

“Uh huh. Since being…out…”

She takes hold of Hiyoko’s chin and coaxes her mouth open. Her tongue is pink and pointed. Nothing looks amiss.

“It might just be…the whole adapting thing…”

“Yeah, probably…”

She doesn’t want Hiyoko to lose any more weight. She corners Kirigiri on one of her many routine trips to the island. 

“You want… _ candy _ ?”

“Well, I don’t, but Hiyoko is having some trouble…I think…and she’s not eating properly. She says there’s something wrong with her taste buds, but I think she might still be in shock or something. I remembered that in the Simulation, she only really ate gummies, so if you could find any I think it might help, and I’d be hugely grateful…”

Kirigiri is silent, then turns to leave. 

“I’ll see what I can do.”

\- - - - -

Hiyoko, though having matured quite significantly since waking up, sobered by the new world and her new body and finding everything a little less funny than before, still begins to smell.

“Man, I thought we’d broken her out of this. You’d think with longer arms she’d find it easier to tie her damn kimono. Hell, why does she even bother with it? It’s not like she dances anymore.”

Sick of Kazuichi’s complaining, Mahiru gets Hiyoko to shower by agreeing to join her again. It’s nauseatingly reminiscent of their time in the Simulation.

Although, of course, it’s also startlingly different.

Hiyoko was always tactless and abrupt, insisting that they wash each other and if that wasn’t awkward enough, she never hid her fascination for the other girls’ body. Mahiru would bat her hands away, returning to washing Hiyoko’s hair, rather than sit the girl down and explain to someone who, at the time, looked  _ and  _ acted like a child, that it wasn’t appropriate to touch or grab without permission.

Now it’s different. 

She never thought she’d see Hiyoko embarrassed, but her new body has her fumbling and blushing like Mikan. When Mahiru helps her wash now, she feels that it's for moral support, to help her get used to her new skin, rather than to act as something to amuse her. It’s…almost a  _ necessity _ . 

“Don’t look, ok?”

“Why?”

“’Cause I don’t want you to!”

“Alright, but you know, you’re the one that keeps asking me to shower with you. You could wash on your own if you don’t want me to see.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…”

She covers her chest. Mahiru has long lost the itch in the back of her mind that makes her want to do the same. 

“I can leave if you want?”

“N-no! I don’t want you to leave! I don’t…”

“You don’t what?”

“I don’t feel safe on my own.”

_ None of us do _ , Mahiru almost snaps, but then remembers herself. 

“Oh. So I’m here for protection?”

“Y-yeah?” Despite her growth spurt, she’s still a little shorter than Mahiru. She blinks up through the blonde hair plastered against her forehead.

“Then I can watch your back and you can watch mine?”

Hiyoko’s back shows the notches of her spine due to her weight loss. Mahiru will make sure that nothing breaks her skin again.

“It’s over, Hiyoko. We’re done. And we’ve gotta be brave now.”

Tears well in Hiyoko’s eyes and she nods.

“D-don’t talk to me like I’m a k-kid.”

Mahiru smiles faintly. She gently pulls Hiyoko’s arms away from her chest and starts rubbing soap into her shoulders.

\- - - - -

The sugar hitting her tongue is like breaking the surface of monotony and finding warm air. 

She gets through three bags of gummies before her tongue starts to go numb and she’s shaking with all the unexpected sugar. There’s no way of telling the last time she had this much in her bloodstream.

The rough outside of the candy scrapes along her soft palate, the sweetness underneath makes her eyes water, the rubbery jelly yields to her teeth and her stomach welcomes the familiar morsel.

_ Taste _ .

It tastes like processed lime and medicinal blackcurrant, like how lemons smell and just a hint of over-saturated strawberry, but it  _ tastes _ , and it’s like heaven on her tongue.

She clings to the shipment like a safety blanket. It’s a remnant of the old world she barely remembers. She doesn’t need to ask who had the candies brought to the island.

\- - - - -

She sleeps in Mahiru’s bed most nights. Since admitting that she doesn’t feel safe alone, Mahiru keeps her company, and as a result she’s been much calmer and easier to be around.

Mahiru finds that, despite what she’d guessed, she actually  _ wants  _ to talk about the whole ‘being dead’ thing. Hiyoko was murdered, just as she was, and she wants to get things off her chest, and some sick part of her brain wants to know if Hiyoko’s experience was similar. 

But Hiyoko won’t hear any of it. Even when she wakes up in the middle of the night, cursing Mikan or crying out for her father, she won’t tell Mahiru anything. Mahiru is worried that as long as she keeps her fears to herself, using her friend’s presence as a superficial comfort, she’ll never get rid of the nightmares.

Most of the time she cries herself into exhaustion and insists they go back to sleep. She diverts attention by clocking out of the conversation altogether. Mahiru thinks that’s almost better than the other method she uses to keep attention away from the shadows in the corners of her eyes.

Somewhere after getting her ‘sense of taste’ back and making herself at home in her new body, Hiyoko’s interest in Mahiru’s turned from innocent fascination to hungry curiosity. 

She presses her tongue to the skin of Mahiru’s neck, her collarbone, her ribs. She drags her teeth over her breasts and bites at her hips and her thighs. Her sharp fingers dig into her skull, her forearms, her lower back. She feels like she’s being slowly eaten alive, like Hiyoko is both testing her reactions and taking chunks out of her for sustenance.

“Hiyoko, why won’t you listen to me?”

“I  _ am _ . God, you’re so annoying sometimes. Do you wanna kick me out?”

“No. I don’t, I just think-”

“Don’t  _ think _ , you do that too often.”

She shouldn’t allow it. Even though they’re the same age, and now they look it, she remembers Hiyoko’s appearance in the Simulation, and the sounds she makes in her old voice make forgetting all the more difficult. 

She does allow it though. Hell, she enjoys it. It’s strange and disorientating and probably not healthy, but it’s nice to get lost in each other for a while. It only goes one way, though. Hiyoko won’t be touched. She won’t be loved. Mahiru is worried that she thinks if she were to touch her, she would love her.

Hiyoko gives but doesn’t give herself. She takes but doesn’t take anything back. She sleeps as close to her friend as she can get and tries not to think about her father, or the men that used to call her cute.

\- - - - -

“Kuzuryuu came to talk to me today.”

“What?! When you were alone?! That bastard better not have tried anything.”

“Of course not, he came to apologise. Or rather, to beg me to forgive Pekoyama.”

Hiyoko tuts. “Typical.”

“It’s so difficult to forget, but…hearing him so earnest, and letting a little bit of the fear and hatred go, feels sort of like a weight off…”

Hiyoko says nothing. She’s pressing the tip of her finger into Mahiru’s mattress, like she’s squishing ghost ants. She’s stopped doing that too. It’s like she’s realised that there’s enough cruelty around her to be so set on inflicting more.

“Hiyoko, you should talk to Mikan.”

“HA! No way. I wouldn’t let that nasty skank get within a hundred feet of me if I could help it.”

“I mean it. I don’t wanna make you do it, because you’re different now, and you know that we all have to change. I will, though. I need you to make amends.”

“I won’t.”

Mahiru glances into Hiyoko’s eyes only for a second, then looks away.

“You will.”

\- - - - -

Forgiveness tastes bitter.

It’s like trying to patch up a piece of clothing with a spider web. It’s like covering up the rust with paint that will just wash away again when the rain comes. It tastes cold and metallic in her mouth. Mahiru assured her it would feel good.

If her mouth is full of blood then she’d rather spit it out at Mikan than swallow it.

She thinks of Mahiru. There was no flavour, and then Mahiru got her gummies, a relic of her past life, to make her work again. Mahiru is the only thing that tastes nice. She will swallow it, then.

“This doesn’t mean I’m your friend, and it doesn’t fucking mean I forgive you for killing me… _ buuuut _ , I get that you weren’t really in control of your actions, and I know full well you wouldn’t do it again, mostly because you’re so weak you couldn’t.”

The malice isn’t gone, but the poison at least tastes familiar.

Mikan’s sobs of gratitude echo behind her as she leaves.

_ Huh, what do you know? I actually do feel a bit better… _

\- - - - -

The decision to throw a party comes from Mahiru, but Hiyoko picks up the off-handed suggestion and runs with it. It’s a welcome distraction, and she nags Mahiru until they organise some sort of committee. 

It’s also an excuse to show off the fact that they are both well aware of the… _ pairs _ …forming in the group.

Set-up is in full swing, and Mahiru lets the power go to her head a little, barking orders at her classmates, scolding Kazuichi for slacking off and shouting instructions at Akane loud enough to rival Nekomaru. 

The party itself is all that could have been expected from this group of people. It is awkward and stilted at first, but then everyone starts to relax. Teruteru’s cooking is exceptional, Ibuki’s music isn’t nearly as  _ unique  _ as it usually is, and Kazuichi has done wonders with the stage lights. People split, shift and merge groups. Several pairs of people disappear and then reappear. Mahiru gets thanked by most of her classmates over the course of the night, which makes her feel somewhat in control again, and the twitching of her right index finger that is all too regular these days finally stops just before the fireworks. 

They watch them from the shore. Kazuichi is dripping from where he apparently fell into the sea. Nekomaru has Teruteru on his shoulders. The Imposter, resembling a past classmate called Ryota Mitarai that none of them can really remember, stands alone, but looks more at peace than they have since waking up. Sonia, slightly sunburnt and with her bare toes buried in the sand, tugs at Gundham’s scarf so that he turns his head to allow her to whisper something in his ear, and then smiles softly at what he hears. Mikan is trembling, but Ibuki stands behind her, steadfast, her chin on her shoulder and her arms round her waist. Peko and Fuyuhiko stand next to them, not quite touching, yet the small space between them feels even more intimate. She notices that she cannot see Hajime or Nagito. 

The fireworks are brilliant, and she has forgotten that this kind of garish beauty actually exists, having only seen muted colours and rough surfaces for months. She feels a weight lift, but before it can fully leave, it settles again. The mood of the group seems to mirror her feeling. There is someone missing, and when they’re all together, her absence is more pronounced.

She was never real, but her absence certainly feels real.

Mahiru drags her eyes away from the display. Hiyoko is staring at her inelegantly.

“What is it?”

“We did really good, Mahiru.”

“Yeah, we did. And I’m sure we’ll do just as good a job at clean-up.”

Hiyoko groans like the child she no longer resembles and in a fit of amused tenderness, Mahiru wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in close.

Hiyoko beams up at her, then goes thoughtful for a worrying moment. Mahiru gets a little lost in the glassiness of her huge, emotional eyes. 

_ To have her would be to love her. Why do I think I might love her if she lets me touch her back? _

Hiyoko reaches into the folds of her kimono, removes something small and red and presses it between Mahiru’s lips; a gummy. It’s strawberry. It tastes like her kisses.

Something warm blooms in her mouth as she bites into the candy. Maybe she hasn’t had sugar in a while, but it seeps into her veins and leeches out some of the poison. If she were as weird as Nagito, she’d say it tastes like Hope. 

_ And why am I so caught up on how loving her would be a bad thing? _

\- - - - -

The men’s voices are still there, but they’re quieter, and she supposes that will be enough.

Hiyoko is fed up with the stupid island, and the stupid people, and the stupid end of the world, but that’s kind of how she always was.

It’s a new year, supposedly, and the season is changing. They’ve been awake for five months, and she finally feels somewhat normal.

Pretty little thing no longer, she is some sort of warrior. Perhaps a warrior of Hope? No, that sounds  _ lame _ .

Still, she helped end the world and now she’ll help save it, even if she is just a dancer with a fucked up taste palate that makes Teruteru foam at the mouth. 

“Mahiru?”

“Uh huh?”

“Do you think I’m cute?”

“Jeez…” Mahiru says from between her thighs. She figures that if fucking Hiyoko means she’s loving her, then so be it. Life is too short to sweat the details.

“Well?!”

“I think you’re irritating.”

“Hmm!” She presses her lips together.

“Nah, you’re not cute, more like sweet and sour. Like candy sugar. You’re an acquired taste.”

Hiyoko pauses for a minute. Her heart pounds. She throws her head back and laughs happily.

“I’ll take that.”


	4. Sight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2020 truly is cursed since I’ve written almost 15K words of Komahina. I assigned this pairing this sense because it fit nicely, and not necessarily because I feel passionate about the ship, but this thing just kept coming and coming. I think it’s given me an appreciation for them, and how they have some proper deep-set compatibility aside from just protag/antag yaoi shit.
> 
> Also, I hope I’ve done Nagito ok. He’s really hard to write. The complexity in these two was so difficult to navigate that I may have skipped over or simplified some stuff just to make it all fit. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't proud of it though.
> 
> And also, thank you for your wonderful feedback??? I’m so glad people like it????
> 
> WARNING: Depictions of self-harm, mentions of canonical suicide and some fairly tame sexual stuff.

_“We’re alike, you and I_.”

“ _Hmph. I wouldn’t consider myself lucky.”_

_“I wouldn’t consider you lucky either. That’s the beauty of it! We both have no proper talent, so in a way I’m not lucky either.”_

_“Is there a difference between being not lucky and being unlucky?”_

_“What a pertinent question! Perhaps. Maybe we’re all ‘not lucky’. It sure looks that way now. At least the others have talent. We’ve just gotta cling to our feeble hope in the dirt under their feet.”_

_“…”_

_“Have I made you angry, Hajime?”_

_“You always make me angry. Please leave me alone, I’m sick of your questions.”_

_“I didn’t ask any.”_

_“You’re always asking questions when you speak.”_

\- - - - -

Looking at Nagito Komaeda is a paradox.

He has shaped himself to blend into the background. His clothes are neutral and unremarkable, he has given himself no defining features, he smiles placidly and vacantly in groups, as if he’s been written into the scene only to bulk it out.

In another way, he physically blends into the environments around him. His skin blurs into his hair blurs into the sky. He has no hard edges. He is not quite swallowed by the world around him but rather, like a chameleon, has chosen to be both temporary and permanent in whatever situation you catch a glimpse of him.

On the other hand, he will never blend in.

He is too pale, too sickly, too soft. His eyes glitter too much. His grin is too intelligent. His hair is too unusual. His clothes do not quite fit him right. His legs are too long. His hands are too expressive.

He is _off_. In every way. He is immeasurably ordinary, but in that very fact he is impossible. To look at him is to look at the space between words, the edge of a storm, a painting that has been restored. It seems calm, but there is a disturbance that you can’t place.

He makes Hajime’s eyes hurt.

After everyone else wakes up, Hajime watches him. He stares until his eyes are dry. He thinks of Chiaki and her cheeks and her voice. He thinks that it cannot be possible to feel something so close and for it not to be real.

He thinks of Kamakura, who he used to be, who he might still be, somewhere. He thinks of the endless possibilities of having an infinite number of untapped talents.

He watches as Nagito sleeps, and he watches as he wakes as well.

“Could I please have some gummy bears?”

He watches as his recovery is mostly silent. He doesn’t speak to him, he doesn’t attempt to engage with him, in fact he’s advised to leave him alone, but he can’t help but watch; at his bedside, from across the room, through the door, over a camera. He watches and processes the unavoidable fact that they’re going to have to live with him again. They’re going to have to learn to trust him.

\- - - - -

“Am I dead?”

“No.”

“Oh. Ok.”

Somehow, in the five minutes he wasn’t being watched, Nagito has slipped out from under the medical staff’s noses and fled. Hajime finds him on the pier, his legs dangling off the edge, still in his hospital robe.

Nagito’s laugh is dry, like sandpaper, and grating. 

“I should be. I don’t think I should be alive right now.”

Something in Hajime is irked at this, something that isn’t _someone_ , and he bites back. 

“None of us should be. Not after what we did. We’re all struggling with that right now, so there’s nothing clever about pointing it out.”

Nagito shuts up. He thinks he’s got Hajime’s number, but he doesn’t appreciate that it goes two ways. Hajime looks at him; the boy that has caused him more strife than anyone he remembers encountering, and Nagito looks back. 

Nagito didn’t murder anybody, he did nothing but attempt to further ‘hope’, whatever that is when said with a capital _H_ , and yet somehow, Hajime knows that he is the most dangerous person on the island. 

He doesn’t look dangerous. He is painfully emaciated. His bones show through skin as thin as Bible pages. The wind that tugs through messy white hair makes Hajime wonder if it might blow him over. He gives the impression he is made of cotton and smoke. 

Except the hand they have given him; metal and wire, attached to the flesh of his forearm about halfway down on his left. It is an advanced piece of technology, bestowed upon him by Naegi’s team, sensitive and complex, and he sits with it in his lap like it’s always been there.

“What will you do now?” 

Hajime is unprepared for the question. Nagito’s eyes are placid and unfathomable, as usual.

_Fight_ , says the voice in his head.

“Survive.” He says out loud.

\- - - - -

Hajime sees his friends cry out for comfort and compassion, be it outwardly, like Ibuki demanding hugs, Akane demanding training partners or Kazuichi demanding attention, or more subtly, like Fuyuhiko inviting Peko everywhere with him _to be sure_ , or Mikan’s meticulous and unending concern, or Gundham entering the breakfast hall after a few weeks of being awake and heading straight for Sonia. He notices them screaming silently, a desperate plea to be recognised, to be valued, to be healed by someone else.

Nagito gives no such plea.

He sits alone. His expression is neutral. He eats what little it will take to keep him alive and he is always well groomed enough to evade suspicion. He is there and not there. He is noticed and unnoticed. He is enough to be seen, but falls short enough to be unseen. 

Except for Hajime, with his new gifts. Except Hajime, who is both terrified of him and inexplicably tied to him. _Especially_ Hajime, who seeks him out like he’s examining a wound he knows is infected.

“Hey.”

“Hello there, Hajime.”

“I’m gonna go for a walk round the perimeter before the Future Foundation gets here.”

“That’s a good idea! Keeping an eye on our borders is bound to come in handy!”

“Would you like to come with me?”

“Huh?”

“I said, would you like to walk with me?”

Nagito’s expression is entirely unreadable. His drive to adore Hajime for his Ultimate status and his resignation to the fact that Hajime has no natural gift are at war every day. Hajime doesn’t care which he choses. He _doesn’t care_ …

“Sure! Why not!”

Hajime sighs as he leaves, with no idea what he’s got himself into.

\- - - - -

Nagito is impossible.

_He is a danger._

_He is so so not boring…_

_He must be controlled._

_He must be studied._

_Watch him._

_Watch him._

_Restrain him._

_Liberate him._

“What do you feel?”

There’s barely a second’s pause before he answers.

“Tired. Extremely tired. Ecstatic! Despairing! Uncertain and confused. Happy…”

It sounds normal, or at least, it sounds like what Hajime is feeling.

“Are you talking to the others?”

“They won’t talk to me.”

Nagito is sometimes unhinged, and sometimes the sanest among them. It hasn’t escaped Hajime’s notice that he was the one of the quickest of the group to adapt to life outside of the Simulation, if you can really say he’s living.

“It’s strange to think that it’s just me they don’t trust! They’ve all put their hope first and regained faith in each other, even the people killed by someone. They even trust you, despite learning the truth! And yet me, they can’t forgive. How strange!”

“Does that make you upset? Are you lonely?”

He laughs. It is breathy and a little pathetic.

“Of course not! I will continue to put Hope first no matter what the situation, and if avoiding me makes them hopeful, then who am I to claim to be sad! Besides, you talk to me, Hajime, despite everything!”

He bites back the words he wants to say: _I’m worried about you_.

“We’re all we have now. We have to get back to how we were before. We have to all trust each other and be friends. We _have_ to. There is no other option that doesn’t end with despair.”

“I wonder if _Hope_ or _Despair_ have any meaning anymore…” He says the most earth-shattering words like they mean nothing, and smiles as he does it.

\- - - - -

“ _NAGITO!”_

Hajime leaps at him, wrestles the knife from his grasp, and forces him to the ground.

Nagito grins up at him. He looks unhinged. He knows Nagito to be unpredictable, erratic, and even unstable, but nowadays he rarely looks this _insane_ …

His arm is bleeding. Badly.

“Nagito, what the hell?!”

“Oh, Hajime! I had no idea you were around! I would have said hey!”

His complexion is even paler than usual, his smile more terrifying. He bleeds heavily from a deep gash in his right forearm.

“What are you _doing_?! You’re gonna seriously hurt yourself!”

“I thought maybe this was another dream! Maybe not, considering I’m not awake yet. Oh well, the body only belongs to _me_ , after all. It can’t make that much difference.”

_Worthless, worthless, worthless. He is so weak, it’s just a shame he is so -clever-…_

Hajime stares down at the pale arm in his grasp. Blood pours from the self-inflicted gash. The offending knife lies threatening but immobile on the floor. Hajime is completely appalled, and yet somehow not surprised.

“This is my fault…” He says, before he can stop himself.

Nagito suddenly looks present. A dark cloud of guilt hovers over his face.

“No, _no_ , Hajime! You’ve helped! Look! I didn’t even know I was awake, let alone alive!”

Nagito is pathetic underneath him. He has him pinned to his bedroom carpet, but it is taking virtually no effort. He is little more than skin and bones, and the cut on his arm looks to be the latest, and deepest, in a long line. A heavy, slick substance crawls up Hajime’s throat, against the grain, like a slug forcing its way up into his mouth. He swallows around it but it’s no use. He feels guilt weigh down his heart. He wants to split himself in two.

“Oh…” Nagito’s eyes fill with tears. “Oh _Hajime_ , I’m so sorry! I had no idea it would make you this upset! If I did I _never_ would have-“

“Just shut up. Shut _up_ _!_ How…how _dare_ you… _put this on me_ _?!_ ” His fault. _His fault_ . “How _dare_ you give me the responsibility of giving you a reason to live?! What about ‘ _hope_ ’?! 

“Hope?”

“Yeah, all that bullshit you’re constantly spewing. Living for _hope_ , dying for _hope_ , all that shit. Is this dying for hope?! Withering away because you’re too weak or too bitter or too afraid to look after yourself?”

“I’m living because you say I should.”

“Huh?”

“ _You’re_ Hope now, Hajime! I was vain enough to give myself the title that so clearly belongs to you; the Ultimate Hope!”

“Cut that out.” Despite looking like a damp rag, Nagito surprises him with a sudden burst of strength. He surges upwards and almost unseats Hajime, who clamps his knees round Nagito’s waist to regain his balance.

“Who am I to refuse an order from the embodiment of Hope itself?! Who am I to question what the future has in store for me when you say it’s important?!”

“Cut it _out_ , Komaeda, I’m sick of this shit.” His hands are slippery from the blood as he pins one wrist of flesh, one of metal, to the ground to stop him thrashing.

“Why am I alive then, Hajime? What is left that Hope can take from me? Why keep me around when so many others more talented have fallen? I thought a spear through my stomach would do it, but apparently not!” He laughs, manically, chillingly, and Hajime forces all of his weight forward. 

Nagito slows, and then stops struggling altogether. He looks spent from the exertion. The glitter vanishes completely from his eyes. He stares blankly, calmly, up at Hajime.

“Why am I alive?”

It isn’t an existential question, but one of genuine confusion.

Hajime sighs and closes his eyes.

“Because you’re difficult to kill.”

He sits back, stands up off him, and extends a hand to help him up.

“Because you’re lucky.”

_Because we’re all lucky. Because I’m lucky, too_.

He pulls a now worryingly compliant Nagito into the bathroom and sits him on the edge of the bathtub.

“If I tell you to stay put, will you?”

He nods vacantly. 

Hajime manages to get bandages from Mikan without her bursting into hysterical sobs, declining her offer of help since Nagito and Mikan in the same room with a self-inflicted wound to treat is a chaotic scenario he doesn’t have the energy to deal with. When he returns, Nagito looks a little faint. The wound is deep, and still bleeding badly.

Kamakura knows what he’s doing. _It’s just blood, it’s not like you haven’t seen it before. In abundance. And from this very body, in fact_ …

He treats the injury in silence, cleaning away as much blood as he can and then pressing the cut closed so he can apply the strip stitches. Nagito watches him with mild surprise. _Probably wondering why we’d even bother_ …

While Kamakura works, Hajime looks. He watches the blue veins running through Nagito’s wrist, standing out prominent against semi-translucent skin. He sees Nagito’s fingers flex minutely when he adds disinfectant; the only sign that he is in pain. His other hand, his robotic hand, is perfectly maintained and perfectly still. His nails are bitten down. His palms are soft and his knuckles are rough. He has a litany of small scars along his hand and then several bigger ones along both arms. By the time Hajime has mentally catalogued them all, Kamakura has finished dressing the cut.

Nagito looks at the bandage and then up at Hajime. His face is that impassive mask that Hajime hates because it is impossible to read.

“You don’t like me very much, do you?” He asks, lightly, like he’s just curious. Hajime supposes his answer wouldn’t change Nagito’s own answer if Hajime asked him the same question.

“No. Not particularly.” He says coldly. He’s surprised to find that it isn’t a lie. He _doesn’t_ like Nagito. Something simmers behind his eyes that says he feels _something_ , but whatever it is, it certainly isn’t amity.

“You really are kind, then.” He says dreamily, examining the clean bandages on his forearm.

Hajime hadn’t even considered that dressing someone’s wound yourself instead of getting a professional to do it might translate to care, or even affection. He didn’t even think when he started doing it. He puts it down to Kamakura having the Ultimate Nurse talent.

He sighs again. He’s done that a lot today.

“Nagito, if you’re so eager to do as I say, will you promise to not do that again? I understand that you have…episodes…where you’re not sure where you are or what’s happening, but you’re gonna kill yourself if you keep dealing with it like this, and I won’t allow that. Not after everything.”

Nagito smiles like he’d expected Hajime to say something like that, which is probably the truth.

“If it makes you happy, I promise.”

\- - - - - 

Nagito is avoiding him.

Not outright, not obviously, in fact most of their peers probably haven’t noticed any difference, but Hajime with his elevated perception and his penchant for _looking_ at Nagito, _has_ noticed.

He sits far enough away at dinner for there to be distance without drawing attention to it. He slinks into communal areas when he’s expected to and then away when he sees Hajime. He doesn’t intercept him on his walks, or hang around near his cottage, or corner him to ask about Kamakura. He exists at a safe distance, which Hajime appreciates, because whenever he’s near him he’s on edge.

Although, this not knowing becomes just as bad, if not worse.

Nagito, despite his best efforts to the contrary after discovering the truth about his lack of talent, is obsessed with Hajime. Hajime can read it in his expression, his eyes endless pools of wonder and awe, his nervous fingers twitching to reach out, but his posture not allowing it. It was obvious in the way he used to watch every movement Hajime made, every step he took, and hang off every word he said. Not now, though. Now, the glimmer is pushed further and further down, and he’s staying so far away that Hajime can’t get close enough to see it anymore.

Not that he wants to.

Hajime is the only one who notices, and probably the only one who cares. Mostly, the others don’t want to be around Nagito, and the fact that he is around them less these days makes them content enough to not question it. Only Sonia actually voices it;

“It is strange that Nagito never comes for breakfast at eight with the rest of us, is it not?”

“Bastard’s so weak he probably has to sleep in. I see him go eat at nine thirty, just before I head over for second-breakfast.” Says Akane.

The conversation then swerves off on a tangent of Akane’s eating habits, and the initial observation is forgotten.

He sees Nagito with others occasionally. Not frequently, but enough to notice. His eyes seek him out, on the beach watching Ibuki shriek about sand, on the boardwalk to his cabin watching the Imposter lecture whoever is nearby, outside the supermarket watching Kazuichi and Gundham argue, waist-deep in seawater watching Akane and Nekomaru try to drown each other between fits of hysterics. Always observing, never active, clearly invited as a courtesy and yet willing to go along with it anyway. 

_He’s like a curse…_

No, not a curse. Hajime scolds his internal monologue for its lack of Hope. It laughs.

_No, not like a curse. Like a virus. An infection. There’s something in his blood, something in –your- blood, taking over, poisoning you before you know it. That’s what kills; not petty wars or feuds or self-hatred or age or accident. What will get you is the disease. He’s a disease. Leech him. Cure him. Cut him out. Exorcise him for all I care_.

Despite the whole damn world being on the edge of collapse, despite humanity experiencing the worst conflict it has ever faced, despite him being the key to peace, the sole possessor of all known and quantifiable talents, and having been given the instruction, no the _privilege_ , to use them to fight Despair, all he can think about is Nagito fucking Komaeda.

He sees him like he’s burnt onto his retinas; behind his eyelids, projected as he tries to sleep. The only way to relieve the discomfort is to _actually_ look at him. 

He’s worried for himself, for his friends, and for Nagito, and they all seem to be conflicting concerns.

Nagito looks at him. He looks at him so much it’s like a physical presence against his body. Nagito’s gaze teases his person, raising the hairs on his arms, alerting him to his presence. He thought he had gotten used to it (he’d watched him in the Simulation too) but he isn’t used to it.

He doesn’t get it. Even with Kamakura on his side, he doesn’t _understand_. He doesn’t know what Nagito wants, if he wants anything, if he’s afraid, or in awe, or wary, or just awkward. He’s pathetic, and yet so terrifying that Hajime wants to rip his skin off every time Nagito looks at it for too long.

He wants...to hit him. He wants to re-open the self-inflicted wounds on Nagito’s arms with a knife, with his nails, with his teeth. He wants to force him against a wall and tear the pulse out of his neck. He wants to mark his pristine, unfathomable person, wants to rupture his paper-thin skin, wants to cause something other than admiration or boredom to fill those terrifyingly bottomless eyes. He wants to pull and rip and push and grab until Nagito takes a physical shape that he can understand, until his body isn’t so feeble that it’s impossible to believe it holds all this knowledge and malice and emotion. He wants to corner him, to pressure him into something pretty, to tear his hair out and hear him thank him for it. He wants to consume him and absorb his uniqueness. He wants…he sort of wants to give Nagito what _he_ wants, whatever that is, at any cost, at any level of vulnerability and discomfort. Hell, he’d stand before him stripped bare and ready to be destroyed, if it meant that Nagito would just _stop fucking looking at him like that_ …

Leech it he will.

Hajime has never feared Nagito - unsettled by his smile, set on edge by his unpredictability, yes - but _actually scared_ _?_ Of course not. He is a man. Hajime is now semi-conscious of being so much more.

“Are you ok with working with me for the party, then?”

He jumps at Hajime’s voice, although Hajime suspects, confusingly, that he knew he was approaching. 

“Of course! Mahiru clearly thought it through, it would be a waste of time to sweat the small stuff! It’s just a shame you don’t wanna celebrate your birthday.”

“I’d rather just....not think about it. I know Sonia wanted to throw me a party or something, but I just don’t want a whole day to be about me, you know? I’m done thinking about myself all the time, it’s exhausting.”

“I understand. Besides, us working towards a New Year’s party might take your mind off our aging. And we’re working together! You know how I value your company, Hajime.”

“Not recently.”

“You noticed, huh?”

“You know I noticed.”

Nagito’s ‘smile’ is more like a twist of his lips. _A trap_ , Kamakura supplies, _Don’t let him know you fell right into it._

“Were you concerned?” Hajime didn’t expect him to voice the question. 

“Sure.” The non-committal affirmative does what he hoped it would. Nagito is either emphatically apathetic or hysterically active. True apathy, _true_ disinterest, is as alien to him as black-and-white morality, and Hajime’s answer unsettles him briefly. But soon, the ‘smile’ is back. He looks at Hajime with pale eyes that are glossy and absent while also being unfathomable. Hajime’s insides twitch. He averts his gaze.

_Coward_ , says Kamakura, and then, _fool_.

“Well, we should maybe leave the clean-up to the day of the party, since the tide will just bring more stuff in anyway if we do it earlier.”

Nagito nods, then says “It’s not December, you know”, as if it isn’t a little bit devastating.

A beat of silence. “How could you possibly know that?”

Nagito lies when it suits him. If he’s lying now, Hajime can’t tell.

_Truth_ , guesses Kamakura. He helpfully runs through everything he’s seen Nagito do, every eccentricity or occurrence he dismissed as nonsensical, to find his route to this conclusion. 

_Ah_ , _bastard._

“Gummy bears.”

“They have the date of manufacture on the packet. I guess _someone_ must still be manufacturing them. Mahiru requested them for Hiyoko, and I guess she must have talked her into giving me a packet, since I asked for one in front of everyone. We’re a bit behind the rest of the world, it seems.”

_How appropriate._

He swallows. He doesn’t really want to know, but he does want to ask.

“By how much?”

“I think it’s March.”

“Oh. Guess we missed the New Year then. And my birthday.” He adds, wryly, like it matters.

“You’ve missed three birthdays.”

“Excuse me?”

Nagito gives a laugh so dry it scratches Hajime’s eardrums. “Once again, we’re in a funhouse, Hajime! Just like old times, someone’s tampered with the clocks. I hope it isn’t to lure just one of us out, because my feelings are that it would be you!”

“How could you know that?”

“I got the year from the packet and the date from my medical charts. They code it in the hospital, but it’s not difficult to figure out.”

Only someone as paranoid and brilliant as Nagito would even think to check, would even _think_ to suspect something as mundane and arbitrary as the date...

“So we’re three years and four months behind?”

“Yes.”

“Why did you think to check that?”

“I had to know how much they were lying to me, of course!”

They were the first words he’d said when he woke up. There was no time for floundering for Nagito, every second was believing or not believing, with his whole being.

“What could they get from lying? What does it matter what year it is?”

“I don’t know! Isn’t that _exciting_ , it’s like being back in the Killing Game, where Hope was at its strongest and its weakest. Mystery breeds hope, you know!”

_To ease you into it. Time shock, culture shock - they do not want to unseat you_ _further_ , Kamakura supplies. Hajime ignores him.

“I guess...we’re all older than we thought? We’re well in our twenties now.”

_'Not children anymore. It doesn’t matter what year it is, we stopped being children the moment that damn bear appeared.'_ Hajime thinks.

A boy, reflecting the harsh sun with his paleness, peering down at him on an unknown beach. The boy becoming Komaeda. Komaeda filling all the spaces around Hajime, expanding and shrinking to make him fit in a group of Ultimates when he had a talent, but it was out of reach. Komaeda becoming Nagito. Nagito warping further, crushed under pressure, transformed and transfigured into something grotesque in the first class trial, his face cracking open with his laughter to show the putrefaction beneath. Nagito, like smoke, slipping between them and among them, prodding here and nudging there, controlling the game with complete deniability. Nagito, looking at him evenly, for the first time _evenly_ , and delivering the punch to Hajime’s stomach that he was _someone_ , but no more than that vague term. The tension leaking out of Nagito like gasoline, the way he’d look through Hajime, the pull gone, the intrigue gone, the threat more terrifying for being easier to understand. Nagito, sprawled on the floor he tied himself to, his stomach caving in around the point of the spear, the air thick with the smell of his blood. Blood on his hands, blood on the floor, blood on the plushie, blood under Hajime’s eyelids and in his nostrils and at the back of his throat. Nagito, eyes wide and unseeing, his skin torn open, his expression twisted in agony, his hair mattered red and his organs liquefying around him and Hajime thinking _I’m free. We’re free. Finally free of him_.

Nagito, on the floor with a spear through him. Nagito, dead, _at last,_ like he’d always secretly wanted. Nagito, gone entirely. Nagito, with his final act being the most cruel. Nagito, doing what he thought was best. Nagito, slicing his own arms and legs open for the sake of the class trial, for the sake of his classmates, for the sake of Hope. Nagito, still and silent and bloodied and pained and dead and dead and _dead and dead_ …

“Are you ok, Hajime?”

Nagito, here, and Hajime, like a masochistic fool, being indisputably glad of that fact.

“Yeah. It’s just...a lot to take in, I suppose.”

“Of course! I’m sorry if I’ve made you concerned.”

_Are you?_

Nagito blinks back at him, placidly, benignly, his lips settled in a line that is soft and unthreatening. He looks and looks and looks; _for what_ _?_ Even a casual glance feels like an interrogation, and Hajime isn’t sure whose fault that is.

_He’s waiting to hear my opinion. Kamakura’s words through Haijme’s lips._

Is he trying to _impress_ him? Hajime can only imagine the tumult taking place in Nagito’s head; he is infinitely better than the Talent-less Hinata, and yet puny compared with Kamakura. Their ground is uneven, but it is impossible to tell in whose favor. No wonder he looks at him so much.

“You know more than you ever say. You can’t blame me for being wary.”

He laughs. “I suppose not!”

\- - - - -

The next time they speak is when he sees Nagito helping carry crates off the latest freight ship, and sees him clenching under the strain on his hand.

“Everything alright?”

“Of course! How wonderful that we are still sent what we need, even when all seems lost!”

“You look like you’re in pain. Are you?”

“Not at all!” He says. Betraying himself with a wince as the box slips. His grip is loose.

“You need that oiling.” Says Hajime, from... _somewhere_ …

“Do I? I didn’t even notice.”

_Liar_. 

“Come with me. I have some for the parts Souda was making me modify.”

“The Ultimate Mechanic looks to _you_ for help?!’ 

Even now, Hajime cannot tell if he is admiring or sarcastically scathing. His expression is neutral, but his eyes are glittering. It sends a shiver down Hajime’s spine.

“Come on.” He says, and turns to lead him to his cabin.

Once inside, he works the oil Kazuichi gave him, or rather, gave Kamakura, into the joints of Nagito’s false hand. 

_“False” is the wrong word. It is a robotic hand, but it is an extension of him. There are many parts of Nagito that are false, but only one that follows direct commands as pragmatically as a robot._

Nagito watches as he works, with a disconcerting closeness. The dreams Hajime had of closeness, of intimacy, race back to him against his will. He thinks of the need for a space full of others. He thinks of how it was almost better when anyone and everyone could have been killed in an instant. The closing circle forced them all together. When anyone might be next, you had nothing to lose.

“What are you thinking about?”

Hajime can barely count how many times Nagito has asked this question.

“The Killing Game.”

“Of course.”

“What are _you_ thinking about?”

“How you know exactly how much oil to apply.”

“I bet you know how much.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you know everything.”

“Do I?”

“Just _stop_ !” Hajime drops the tube of oil. No, he _throws_ it.

“Stop asking questions. Please. Give me answers. That’s all I’ve ever wanted from you.”

Nagito looks confused. “...Answers?”

“Yes.”

“To...what?”

“To _everything_ ! What do you know? Who are you? What do you _want_ _?!_ ”

Nagito’s face flushes pink, blood rushing to the surface of his white skin like syrup through shaved ice. Hajime feels regret, guilt, for a moment before another smirk steals across Nagito’s face. 

He laughs. It’s breathy. It makes the hair on Hajime’s arms stand on end.

“You’re confused by your own opinion of me! I’m not that complicated, I just want what everyone wants; for the world to be a better place! I just have less concern for _my_ place in it!”

Hajime feels a snag at the edge of his words, gets caught on it, and lets Kamakura take over for a moment. 

“I don’t think that’s wholly true. I think what you want is purpose, _stimulation_ , even. I think what you really want is to not be bored.”

“And how did you reach that conclusion?” He says, already knowing the answer, but Hajime humors him. 

“Because I’m the same. Because _we’re_ the same.”

He doesn’t know who ‘we’ is out of the three of them, but he figures it doesn’t matter. 

_Bored is sometimes ok. Bored is sometimes at peace._ As the thought rips through him, he’s Hinata again. His fingers are still on the knuckle joint of Nagito’s little finger. His skin is slick with grease, the robot hand is warm and softly whirring in his grasp.

When he looks up again, Nagito is closer. His face is still flushed, his eyes glassy with wonder, or with tears maybe. He is looking, still. He searches Hajime’s face for something. His expression is less idolatrous than in the Simulation, less fanatical, less despairing, but…

_Ah._

Human emotions that seem impossibly complex are often so simple. He draws in a regrettably shaky breath. Nagito wets his lips. 

Hajime stands. He is not in the mood for this right now.

“Come on, let’s go get dinner.”

“Dinner?” He seems confused.

“Yeah. Last meal of the day. We’re gonna go eat with everyone, ok?”

“Well, I don’t know if people would want someone like me-”

“Cut it out. We’re all past that now.”

Something clicks. Nagito smiles again. His fingers flex around an imaginary weapon, an imaginary hand. 

“The restaurant then, that’s fine by me!”

When they arrive together, there’s a disturbance. Nagito hasn’t eaten with the others at dinner since he woke up, choosing to socialise in smaller groups. Eyes follow them to their seats, and Hajime catches every last one of them. 

_Tsumiki and Mioda are...‘together’. The former is dependent on the latter, in a way they were not before, likely a result of the latter’s strength of character and the former’s latent homosexuality. This is the only new development. Souda hasn’t slept again. Nidai and Owari have been sparring, and he is still winning. Hanamura’s hand is shaking as he brings out dishes; another domestic flashback. Koizumi and Saionji are almost there, as are Pekoyama and Kuzuryuu. Not quite. Will get there. How boring. How pathetic. Pair up, you humans. A few are lacking, a few resist. Stupid. What a waste of time. Sonia Nevermind, crown princess of Novoselic, is speaking in light, happy, constrained, disguised tones to the Imposter. Tanaka, beside her, is practically bubbling with words, his gaze is so heavy, his presence, so close and so far, wretched with Despair. How pathetic humans are. How weak, slaves to emotion, to dependency on each other. How utterly incapable of voicing what they want…_

Then this would all be over.

_Say what you mean…_

And everything would be easier…

“Hinata! Komaeda! Would you like to eat with us?”

Diplomatic as ever, Sonia waves at the pair, and Hajime wrenches his mind out of analytics and into feeling. He doesn’t give Nagito the option; he grasps his sleeve and pulls him to Sonia.

The Imposter is Togami again today. He expresses distant concern for Nagito’s appearance.

“...pathetically thin. To survive so much and starve to death because you cannot handle rich food, truly emblematic of a low-status individual.”

Nagito’s laugh is breathy and self-deprecating, as ever.

“You’re right! This food disagrees with me! The universe must know I’m not worth Teruteru’s cooking!”

Hajime must have a word about the Imposter impersonating Byakuya around Nagito. He was _just_ making progress…

“Nagito, are you quite well? You look awfully pale. Perhaps sickness is the reason behind your lack of appetite?” Sonia Nevermind to the rescue once more. Hajime could kiss her.

Nagito smiles, but the edges are tight. “I’ve never been much of an eater.”

Hajime wonders if his illness is back. He should take him for another blood test. To look at him, you’d be surprised if he had any blood at all.

“Well, my wonderful friends! Looks like we got a couple more chasms to fill! My speciality, don’t you know.” Says Teruteru. His wink seems a little lacklustre, but his tone is as lewd as ever. “All that time spent in your cottages _gettin’ reacquainted_ must make you mighty hungry. Here, have a double portion to prove I’m totally not jealous!”

Hajime bristles only a little at the implication, without summoning the energy to say anything. Nagito doesn’t look ashamed at all, but he is blushing, and the flush in his cheeks is not one of embarrassment.

He watches Nagito eat, pressing small portions between his chopsticks, chewing thoroughly, his thin throat working with each swallow. Teruteru’s cooking is fantastic, as ever, but Nagito seems to garner no pleasure from eating. He does so dutifully, however, not-so-subtly glancing at Hajime to see if he is still watching him, measuring his mouthfuls to be almost exactly the same size, his gaze placid and empty. He makes his way through his whole plate, and only when he has finished and looks to Hajime expectantly does he realise he hasn’t touched his own food yet.

Sonia is still talking, and the Imposter is answering her bright observations, also looking at Nagito from under Togami’s lowered brow. Hajime starts to eat his own meal, distracted momentarily by Gundham, who after sitting in sullen silence for most of the time, glaring at the fish on Hajime’s plate and barely eating himself, stands abruptly and leaves the restaurant. Sonia’s pleasantries trail off, watching him go. Her eyes are sad, but hold more understanding than Hajime expected to see there. _I wonder what is going on there_?

“Are you gonna finish that, Hajime?” Asks the Imposter. That makes him smile despite himself, pushing his leftovers towards the other boy. He catches the white flash of Nagito’s matching smile out of the corner of his eye. 

\- - - - -

He dreams of Chiaki most nights. If it isn’t a tangle of bloody images ( _memories_ , he thinks with a lurch), it’s her, shiny like she is made from delicate plastic, serene like she’s won her game and promised herself a nap as a reward. His manmade, over-powered, wayward mind can construct her so _painfully_ vividly in his dreams.

“You’re doing so well! Who can say our mission wasn’t a success now? You’ve done as well as we could have hoped! And you’re helping the others, too. I’m so glad.” She says airily.

“It’s not as easy for me as it was for you.”

“You’re one of them, I never was.”

“I wasn’t then and I’m not now.”

She gives him a gentle, ironic smile. “You are. In a group of misfits, no one is an outcast, right? Look how far you have all come, Hajime. You’re healing.”

“People heal on their own. I suspect they’re scared of me.”

“Well you must continue to prove that they shouldn’t be.”

“I’m not sure they shouldn’t be.”

“Aren’t you?”

He feels heavy with her wisdom. She would always talk so simply and make perfect sense. He envies her that. He resents that she can throw his questions back at him and he _sees_ , whereas when Nagito does it, he just gets frustrated.

He misses her so much he could choke on it.

“The one I really need to get through to is the one I’m finding the hardest.”

“He is finding his place in the new world too. He’s having to adapt and acclimatise and he will, I’m sure, like the rest of you will.”

“He killed you.”

“I was never alive, Hajime. This version of me never existed in the real world.”

“You were alive. You were _so_ alive. You had habits and preferences and thoughts of your own.”

“Only a very complex programme, I’m afraid…” She says, ever so softly, kindly, kinder and more patient than any human could be; he should have known.

“Based on…”

“Your classmate, yes. I was not her, though. I had some of her manufactured memories and personality traits, and her shape as she was when she died, but I served a single and direct purpose, unlike a human.”

“You were real to us. You were real to me. That’s what matters, right?”

Her smile turns impressed, proud even, and he starts to understand at last.

“Yeah, that’s what matters.”

He reaches for her. She seems so real that he thinks he can touch her, even if he is vaguely aware that this is a dream, and she is long dead, twice dead, never truly known.

She stretches out her hand to meet him halfway. He feels _something_ , not wholly solid, but something warm and just out of reach. He feels his heart quake.

“You can get through to him, Hajime, I know you can, and then the hard part will be done. He’s different to the others with you, and you are different with him. You have to balance telling him what he needs to hear, and what you need to tell him. It shouldn’t be selfish, but it shouldn’t be selfless either...I think.”

More riddles. Maybe he should just be honest, it would take less energy. 

“I-” What he wants to say gets stuck to his tongue, as usual, as he feels his dream ending, conscious of running out of time with this girl he once knew, once trusted, once considered one of his closest friends. He cannot finish the thought, but he can try a new sentiment.

“I wish I could remember you from before…”

She nods. Her smile is sad now. The sheen on her eyes could be tears, perhaps.

“Maybe you will, someday. I think I’d like that; if my classmates remembered me as a human.”

He wakes up with the familiar hollow feeling in his chest, a hopeless longing for closeness and closure with someone he thought he’d never lose. In the Simulation she’d been so unmoveable, so calm, so trusting and honest and assured that he’d never considered that she might be taken from them until it was too late. He can still see her execution burned onto blankness if he lets his mind slip too far. It tastes of Despair. 

_Thank you, Chiaki_ , he thinks. Even gone, she is helping him. He regrets that she helped them so much and they could never help her. He regrets that her role in their lives was so one-sided.

As long as he can recreate her voice, as long as he remembers her face, her hope, her serenity and bravery and wisdom, he will not lose himself. How could Kakamura, so full he spills, so complicated he is boring, compete with her; a real, soft-spoken girl with a minor case of narcolepsy and a gameboy?

\- - - - -

So he perseveres with Nagito. There is little else to do. It is ironic, that after the hijacking of the Neo World Programme, the Killing Game, the destruction of Junko’s virus and the return to reality, they are all back on a deserted island, dedicating their time to healing and getting along.

Nagito eats dinner with everyone else now. That is a definite improvement. He is quiet and reserved, and some of the group still do not trust him, but Hajime cannot blame them. Those more open to trying, Sonia and Nekomaru and Akane and Ibuki and even the Imposter, speak to him cautiously but kindly, and Hajime is relieved that he doesn’t have to constantly babysit him.

He starts... _hanging out_ with Nagito. It is unbearably awkward at first, and the other boy still _looks_ at him too much and for too long, but it gets easier. Sometimes, when Nagito is in the mood to annoy him by answering questions with more questions and bemoaning his own lowly status to a ridiculous level, Hajime has to take a mental step back and think of Chiaki. Then he takes a deep breath. Then he answers Nagito calmly. Then he tells him firmly but neutrally that he is not worthless, that he _is_ worth the space he takes up, and that Hajime does not want him gone, and they move on. He thinks it is important that he imbeds these ideas into Nagito’s head without making them sound false or exaggerated.

Sometimes the mania creeps in. Sometimes he is elsewhere, making no sense, his arms wrapped around him like he’s holding his ribs together, and Hajime has to fight for his attention. Sometimes his gaze is drawn to the horizon, even if they are inside, even if they cannot see the sea, and Hajime can see his longing, his impatience. He itches, sometimes, and he is lost again, and he cannot look at Hajime, cannot look at anything for more than a few seconds.

And then sometimes there are calmer days. Sometimes, Hajime coaxes the boy out of Nagito. Sometimes, they have conversations that seem...normal, that seem easy, friendly, _promising_ …

Nagito likes fruit juice. He likes light sea breezes, and green, and quiet, and rabbits. He likes holding things, feeling their edges, figuring them out for himself. He takes a few seconds to absorb new information, longer than Hajime, longer than most, but he weighs it, judges it, turns it over in his complicated mind, and then, once he is done, he understands it fully, and that is something that other people cannot do.

He asks about Hajime, too. There is always the shadow of obsession, but now it feels more genuine. Once, Nagito laughs at a throwaway joke he makes, and the sound is so sincere that Hajime thinks about it for the rest of the day.

\- - - - -

Nagito is here, in his cottage, with its lumpy mattress and empty wardrobe, papers and pills piled on his desk. He stands and fidgets. Hajime goes to tidy away the files he has been reading. Nagito picks up his alarm clock, turns it over in his hands, examines the dials on the back.

“Why have you been provoking Akane?”

“If Owari is upset with me, I am very sorry.” He says, with honest remorse, but still focused on the clock.

_He’s sayin’ all kinds of stuff, and I’m sick of it! Why can’t he just be like the rest of us? Why does he think staying sad makes him special?!_

Akane was angry, and that was understandable.

“You provoked her.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Didn’t you?”

Nagito calculates his every move. Nagito always knows more than he’s saying. Nagito can predict less complex people, like Akane.

He looks at Hajime. His face is empty, his eyes are full. “No. I didn’t.” He says.

Hajime feels a twinge near his ribcage. It _aches_ , in the place that is touched the least and hurts the most. 

“Some people are trying to move on. Do not bring up what...what happened. Do not talk about death over breakfast, I don’t know why that needs saying.”

Nagito frowns. “So...no Killing Game?”

“If you can avoid the subject, that might help.”

“Then...what do we talk about? How do we know each other?”

Who they were before is out of reach. There is no way of telling if they were similar to how they are now, or entirely different people. All they have is the Simulation. All they know of each other is the version of themselves they were before the world fell apart, before _they tore it apart_. Perhaps they do not know each other at all. Perhaps Nagito is right…

“Can’t you at least _try_ _?_ ”

Nagito lowers the clock back to the bedside table. Hajime follows its trajectory before meeting his eyes again. 

“Who am I to you, Hajime?”

“M-me?”

“Yeah. If that was all pretend, and it never happened, who are we to each other? Were we friends before? Are we friends now? What’s the point of all this?”

“There doesn’t have to be a point.” He snaps. “I just want…” _I want my life back. I want the world back._ “I just want us all to get along.”

“...Get along?”

“Yeah. Yeah, like _friends_. You’re...you’re my friend. Aren’t we friends?”

Nagito looks genuinely shocked at that. “Is that why you brought me here? Not to lecture me on my argument with the others?”

Nagito has a habit of addressing the elephant in the room, of dragging it under a spotlight, scrutinising it, analysing its weak spots, when everyone else is trying to forget. It is a coping mechanism of his own, but it is not making things easier, and Hajime _must_ get him to stop. That was the reason he had all but dragged him to his cottage. He needs to speak with him alone, because alone it is easier to get through to him, easier to read him without all the external stimuli, easier to read his face.

Nagito had been willing to die, _horribly_ , with no witness and no closure and no warning, for the sake of his beliefs, for the sake of the rest of them or the rest of humanity or whatever. Nagito believed he was dying. Nagito had fallen, and then found himself raised from the ashes. Nagito’s life is a balancing act of loss and gain, a constant, desperate promise of pain and release, of torture and euphoria. How could anyone live like that? How could anyone carry that darkness, that uncertainty, that insane genius around with them, and not need to throw a grenade into the middle of every conversation that feels a _little too normal_ …

But he is making progress, Hajime reminds himself. He is more stable, healthier, _happier_ even, when he is present, and not lost in that vortex of his own mind. He is _not_ beyond saving. He is _not_ a lost cause, a loose canon, a poison or a virus. He is a dying boy, with brittle bones and fragile skin and a brilliant brain, too big to fit, too unsteady to keep itself together. He can be helped, and Hajime will be the one to do it. Hajime _wants_ to do it. Nagito scares him as much as he fascinates him. He hates him as much as he cares for him.

“Don’t talk about our friends killing each other. Please? Don’t do that.”

“I thought...we should address things to recover from them. We can’t pretend they never happened, right?”

“No, we can’t, but it shouldn’t come like a jab from you. It shouldn’t be a throwaway comment. It takes time. The others are fragile. Don’t you see? We can’t afford to turn against each other now. All we have to do is make each other happy...that is it…”

He is breathing heavily. He feels exhausted from the brief exchange, desperate to break through the fog.

“I see.” Nagito says. He fidgets with his mechanical hand. Hajime wonders if he _does_ see. 

“People don’t tend to like me, though. Being myself doesn’t always work out for me.”

Hajime scoffs. _Great, more self-loathing_.

“Well, that’s all you can be. You can’t sustain anything else, not healthily anyway. Besides…” _Oh god, he’s really going to say it, how pathetic_ , “...I like you. I like you fine.”

He is expecting more suspicion or exaltation, but Nagito doesn’t even blink, stony and serious.

“You do?”

“Y-yes. Of course. Why else would I be trying to help you?”

“Pity? Duty? Fear?”

Hajime laughs, just about. “I’ve long given up on that front. It’s taken me this long to realise I’m probably as obsessed with you as you are with me.”

_There_. It’s out in the open now. Finally, Nagito blinks. His eyes go from clear to blurry very quickly, but there are no tears there. He looks drowsy, drunk almost, his eyelids suddenly heavy.

Then a smile spreads across his face. It isn’t a soft, serene smile that looks nice and comfortable there. It is a shimmer of his Simulation insanity. It is a crack in the glass.

“So what do we do?”

“Huh?”

“What do we do, since we can’t get along like normal friends but we can’t seem to stay away from each other?”

He has phrased the situation so simply and succinctly that Hajime is thrown off balance for a second. 

“Uh...Try? Keep trying? We’ll get used to it.”

“Get used to what?”

“This…’not being enemies’ thing. That’s what it is, right?... _Trust_ ? I thought you’d be my downfall, before, in the Neo World Programme.” _You might be yet_ , he thinks bitterly. 

They’re going to have to navigate a friendship among the radioactive ruins of a deadly rivalry. Nagito felt so distant and dangerous, so huge and threatening, so unreachable and important, and now he is just...supposed to trust him? To be his friend? To make room for him in what is left of his heart? How can he do that without once again tearing down what he has worked so hard to put back together? Is it possible for a world to exist where they can be ‘friends’?

But...he _wants_ it, he realises. He _wants_ Nagito to trust him. He wants Nagito to spend time with him. He wants him to open up to him, to sit with him quietly, to laugh and eat and cry and talk with him. He wants to find the brilliance in him that has called to Hajime from the minute he dropped his ‘normal’ facade in the first class trial. He wants to find it, mine it, keep it, cultivate it.

Does Nagito want that? Did Hajime seem as untouchable to him as he did to Hajime? Does he feel the pull, and the distance, as well?

And still Nagito looks at him, not so much like he wants to, and more like he _must_ . There’s always been a hunger in Nagito, crying out for _something_ ; place, purpose, person, it shifts too quickly and too opaquely to keep track of. It is there now. It wants to look at Hajime, it wants to _gorge_ itself on him. He feels like he should be scared, but he has so little to lose he cannot find the willpower. 

“I was never your enemy. At least...that’s not what I _meant_ , I-”

“Hey, Nagito…It’s done, now. It’s over. We can let go, and start again.” Hajime manages a small smile, attempting to be reassuring. 

Nagito’s pale eyes are still distant, and he takes a few, slow, unsure steps forward, like he isn’t aware he’s moving at all.

Hajime backs up, struggling against the instinct to move away. His legs hit the edge of his bed and he decides to stand his ground.

“Start...again?” Nagito asks, faintly, in a fragile voice.

“N-Nagito? Are you-”

He’s close now, once more, like when Hajime was helping him with his hand. And, as before, his eyes shine, wide and full of suppressed awe, glittering with maybe-tears.

“You’d want that, Hajime? You’d...want a fresh start with me?”

“Uh…” He’s lost the thread of the argument. He nods slightly. “Yeah.”

His smile is smaller now, toothy round the edges, soft like moonlight, a little hypnotising. Hajime swallows.

“Is… is that what you want?” He asks, and as soon as he says it, he knows the answer.

Nagito’s gaze is steady, and intense, prickling down the back of Hajime’s neck, nestling in the base of his spine, stirring the bottom of his stomach. Nagito’s cheeks are flushed, and his pupils are blown. His breathing is only a little heavier than usual but his chest still seems to heave with it, with the space of the _thing_ filling him up inside.

His lips are parted slightly. The inside of his mouth is wet and pink.

Looking at Nagito looking at him, Hajime sees what he wants. He sees the base simplicity of it.

“Oh.” He says, out loud, accidentally voicing the lone thought.

_So it is like that_ , he thinks, feeling like even more of an idiot. _It has perhaps always been like that._

Nagito draws in a breath, quick and sharp and disturbing the quiet. He has gasped because Hajime has reached out and touched him. Without realising, or meaning to, he has stretched out his hand and put his fingertips to Nagito’s mouth, which he seems unable to stop staring at. He presses his index finger gently against Nagito’s bottom lip. His face feels hot, his heart beats, his mind swims.

It’s like he’s looking at himself from above, like he’s watching his actions from outside a fish bowl, singularly affected, effectively powerless. He is fascinated at his own boldness, at the hunger that also flares up in him, twin flames reflecting each other. 

His touch moves to Nagito’s cheek, twisting a wayward lock of his soft hair around his fingers, trailing down his neck, slipping to his chest, resting there to feel his thundering heartbeat, his butterfly breaths, palpable awareness again _so like_ his own, like seeing a negative of a photo of himself.

He is processing...slowly. _Where is Kamakura’s cold reasoning when you need it?!_ Of all the people here, of all the brilliant, ridiculous, compassionate, comprehensible people he knows and cares for, why did it have to be _Nagito Komaeda_ that…

Kamakura offers one more thought; _“Luck”._

Nagito surges forward. Hajime finds himself embraced. Thin arms wind around him with surprising strength, like ivy, like a boa constrictor. A body of bones knocks into his, stays there, _pressing_ . Nagito buries his face in the curve of Hajime’s neck. He can feel him breathing, short and burning hot, against the sensitive skin there. Nagito _sighs_ , as he often does, but it is heady and fluttering and _sensual_ , like he is utterly relieved to be touching Hajime at last. Hajime feels lips at his throat, feels Nagito open his mouth - again _so hot_ \- feels his tongue, his teeth, sucking a kiss into his skin that cannot be misconstrued even by someone without a relevant Ultimate talent. It’s as if Nagito is trying to feed from him, feed _off_ him, suck something out of his body.

Hajime is already growing hard against Nagito’s hip. His pants aren’t that thick; he _must_ know…

“Ah... _Hajime_...Hinata…”

Hajime is loath to stop him. That or he is too weak to. How has this happened? He feels turned around, disorientated, dizzy with sudden lust, dry-mouthed and a little desperate. Nagito is trembling in his arms. Hajime’s fingers curl round Nagito’s biceps as Nagito’s hands drop to Hajime’s belt. 

He _does_ know. And he is pragmatic as ever.

Hajime’s grip tightens, but he is frozen to the spot. Nagito _bites_ him, actually closes his teeth around the skin of Hajime’s neck, and a sound is torn from him, somewhere between a yelp and a gasp. He doesn’t stop Nagito when he unbuckles his belt, unzips his fly, presses his metal hand to his erection through his underwear. It is cold. Hajime makes another noise through gritted teeth.

Nagito pushes him, insistently, surprisingly firmly. Hajime’s knees give out and he falls back onto his bed, sitting on the edge of it, pants half open, a delightful stinging ache on his neck where he knows Nagito’s kiss will have bruised him. Nagito looks angelic standing above him, breathing heavily through rosy lips, the colour high in his cheeks, his eyes full of unshed tears, looking struck with his own bravado, disbelieving at Hajime’s compliance, single-minded in his intention, and still so _hungry_ …

There is a moment, when he leans over Hajime, bringing their faces level, that Hajime feels like he can almost _see through_ Nagito’s eyes, like he can stare through their bright, clear depths, past pale eyelashes, and into the darkness of the inside of his head. What he sees there is himself, staring back at him.

Nagito slips between Hajime’s legs and drops to his knees. Hajime can only watch, his tongue heavy and numb in his mouth, his blood rushing in his ears like a waterfall. Nagito’s mouth is wicked and quick. He is messy and desperate to please, less vocal than Hajime would have thought, like he’s forgotten how to speak, how to act, how to do anything else. Hajime feels a swell of guilt against the overwhelming tide of arousal, like he’s _using_ him, like he’s exploiting something precious and weak and defenceless, before he realises who he is attributing those words to. Nagito probably saw this coming a mile off. Nagito’s tongue is deft and velvet soft, his lips sure, and Hajime gives up, gives _in_ , for once.

_If this is how it is, then this is how it must become..._

\- - - - -

The day before the ‘New Year’, two days before his not-birthday, Hajime finds himself trailing the shoreline, picking up trash. 

_How has it come to this?,_ he thinks glumly, almost glad of a vestige of his teenage disinterest making itself known. Nagito works with slow but precise efficiency, closing the fingers of his robot hand around loose plastic and sticks. 

The beach is a mess; scenic vistas clearly aren’t a Future Foundation priority, and the detritus washed up by the storm or by the sea over years of neglect collects along the waterline. They work quietly, Nagito with his lips pressed together and a faraway look in his eyes, Hajime trying to slow his too-fast mind down by watching the other boy stoop to pick up a soda can. Nagito’s hair is longer than Hajime has ever seen it, brushing past his collar, still a mess of fluffy white, twisting down his neck, with no defined parting.

Kamakura has been loud today, calculating nuclear fallout, political vacuums, rates of water travel, life expectancy, like turning his brain inside out, over and over again, as a way of breaking through, getting lost, maybe even to get Hajime’s _attention_.

Because Hajime has been thinking about trivial things; like the party, and his friends, and new beginnings and Hope and Nagito Komaeda’s mouth. 

_Stupid, stupid, letting yourself be so vulnerable, putting yourself at a disadvantage on a whim, giving yourself over to something as petty as desire just for a moment of feeling_ …

Nagito isn’t _acting_ like Hajime has given him anything. He isn’t glancing at him in a new light, smirking to himself, lauding the fact over Hajime like he perhaps expected him to. He is quiet and contemplative, the silence awkward like it _should_ be between two boys who’ve found something unexpected in each other.

And Hajime has given Nagito something, _that_ he cannot deny, but it isn’t his heart on a platter or his soul bared for scrutiny. He’s given him his trust, his skin-deep insecurities, his intimacy, and (as far as he can remember) his virginity. He doesn’t regret that. The whole situation felt a little chaotic, almost drug-induced, non-verbal, with few recognisable emotions other than lust, like it erupted out of them both, all at once. They didn’t even _kiss_ …

“Are you alright, Hajime?”

“Oh? Uh huh.” He says, shoving a handful of rotting leaves into his trash bag. “Just thinking.”

Nagito’s smile is small. The evening draws on. His fair hair and fair skin backlit by the sunset make it look like he’s been set on fire.

“So...collecting trash, huh? Sounds like a _perfect_ job for-”

“Don’t even say it.” Warns Hajime. “We’ve been here for almost an hour and you haven’t made a single ‘I am trash’ joke. I was just beginning to feel proud.”

There are a few moments of silence before Nagito’s shoulders shake. He’s... _laughing ?_

“Ha ha! Guess I am that predictable!” The amusement is genuine. Hajime has made him laugh. His eyes shine. Hajime’s stomach twists.

He laughs too, a little. “Well, it’s basically your catchphrase. I think I speak for everyone when I say it _does_ start to get old.”

Nagito laughs again, shakes his hair so it floats about him, picks up a syringe, brushes off the wet sand to squint at the label, drops it into the soda can and into his own trash bag. 

With all of Kamakura’s talent, he’s still an awkward schoolboy with an inability to communicate, it seems.

They work longer in silence, scouring the whole beach. His back begins to ache and his eyes strain in the growing dark, but the silence with Nagito is, for once, peaceful, and he is grateful of something to do with his hands. He picks up a half-rotten coconut and it rattles as he moves it. He holds the hole in its shell over his outstretched palm, and something falls into his hand. It is a plastic star, relatively new-looking, still slightly shiny, one point shorter than the other four, but otherwise in good shape. In brushing away the seaweed and sand he sees it is attached to a hair clip. 

He lets out a huff of amusement, and cleans the clip on his shirt, brushing off the sand. It is silver, small, shiny, girly; something Chiaki would have liked, he thinks. He smiles and slips it into his pocket. 

“I think this is the best we can do, Nagito. It certainly looks a lot better.” They’ve filled eight garbage bags just from the litter. The beach looks not only safe, but actually appealing now. 

“It’s kind of thankless, but someone has to do it I guess!” Says Nagito brightly. The sun has fully set now. They are illuminated by the eerie ambiance of the electric lamps that light the island’s paths. 

“Find anything interesting?” He asks Nagito as they move the trash to the collection point. 

“I found a morphine syringe and a chip packet written in English! Must have travelled far! Oh, and this.” He rummages in his coat, and then opens his fist for Hajime to see. There is a small, rounded piece of blue seaglass in his palm. It is probably from a bottle of alcohol or a bit of a wrecked machine or something, but it is beautiful in its wave-worn simplicity, without context or history, just as something colourful and clear, with no jagged edges.

“For you.” Says Nagito, pressing the glass into Hajime’s palm. “There’s a little hole at the top, see? You could make a pendant.”

“I think Sonia or Ibuki would be more keen on that.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because I’m giving it to you.” His face is earnest, his eyes are soft. Hajime swallows.

“Thanks, Nagito. It’s really nice. I’ll keep it safe.”

Before they part ways for the night at their respective cottages, sentimentality gets the better of Hajime, like he had a feeling it would. He stops Nagito from leaving with a silent grip on his arm. He turns him back round to face him. He pulls out his own spoils, the little plastic clip, and shows it to Nagito, who has a second of confused observation to realise what it is, before Hajime slides it into his hair, clipping a few of the more stubborn curls out of his pale eyes. 

“It looks pretty.” Says Hajime, dumbly, because it does. The silver sits nicely in Nagito’s hair, decorative but not flamboyant.

Nagito’s eyes are wide and deep, his mouth a little ‘o’ of muted surprise. His lips pull into another fragile smile and he blinks at Hajime - too full of feeling. 

“It does?”

“Yeah.”

“Th-thank you, Hajime. How thoughtful!”

\- - - - -

He leaves the party before the fireworks start. He needs to get away from the group, needs some space to _think_ , and even though being alone would be better, he left knowing that Nagito would follow him. He is having one of his worse nights, on the night of the _party_ , as well…

_Just my luck._

He’s talking now. Hajime only catches the tail-end of his ridiculous rant.

“Wouldn’t you say so, Hajime? They don’t even know! Years and years gone by, and they don’t even care! Isn’t life just what you make it? Isn’t something only worth celebrating if you decide it’s good?! What arbitrary rules we lash ourselves to!”

He can feel Kamakura fading. He’s never felt so himself, so alive, so tingling with potential he is terrified to tap into; and _loving_ that he doesn’t know exactly what is going to happen next.

“That’s all that matters; _Hope_ is a human concept. The only thing that matters is yourself, each other, the people you know and the people you haven’t met yet. That’s it. Love is the only reason for existing.” Hajime says, stopping at the edge of the trees, turning to look at his companion.

The blush rises higher in Nagito’s cheeks. Even in the dim light, he can see the rampant glitter in his eyes; such a thin line to tread between hope and despair.

“I expected nothing less from you, Hajime! You find Hope in others; that’s _your_ Hope! How wonderful, how thrilling to behold! You don’t realise it is pointless! You don’t see that love is another word for Hope, and one that doesn’t endure as well! Of course you look for the good in others! Of course that’s why you can stand me! The Ultimate Hope sees it is essential! There is no stopping it! There never has been! Despair will never win because the human heart’s natural inclination is towards the good, and even _you_ , who were far from human, chose it! How wonderful to be a bystander! No wonder you wanted to save everyone, even me; someone you hate, someone who made your island life a nightmare, who thwarted you and struggled against you, who annoyed you and pushed you to the brink of your patience! And you’ve forgiven me, because you see that’s what must be done in the name of Hope!”

Hajime’s fist hits the bark of a palm tree with a dull _thud_ . It hurts. The delicate bones in his hand, the ones Nagito is missing, rattle and ache with the impact. That gets him to shut up. That gets him to _finally shut up…_

“You’re an idiot, Nagito.”

His smile drops, for a second, then resumes its place of vacant serenity.

“Yes! I’m sure I am, compared to you!”

“This isn’t about _Hope_ . You think I’ve _forgiven_ you?! Wrong. You think I speak to you, make you eat, clean up the mess you make, force you outside, worry about your health, think about you constantly, because of _Hope_?! Because of some loftier purpose I’m aware of?!”

Nagito is quiet now. He frowns. The expression is weak and pretty on his face. It makes him look young, less tormented, more innocent, more normal.

“‘Loftier...purpose’?”

“For someone so intelligent you can be so dense.” He laughs. Nagito’s face is uncharacteristically serious; _actually_ confused.

“Huh?”

“Against my better instincts, against my knowledge of Hope and Despair, of the world and what is in it, I am drawn to you, I see you and feel you, because I _am_ human, Nagito. I am fallible and weak, I am inexplicable. It isn’t because of Hope that I care, it’s in _spite_ of it. And I _do_ care. I _fucking_ care, on a level deeper and more difficult to understand than any other vague philosophy.”

He hasn’t prepared for this, or foreseen it. _He made this happen, how did he not foresee it?!_

“Your feelings are-“

_No. He’s not going to get the last word._

“Shut up.” He’s grabbing Nagito’s shirt, forcing him against a palm tree, pressing his body against Nagito’s, his head thrumming, heart thumping, Nagito’s breath puffing hot against his mouth. 

“A-are...you going to kill me, Hajime?”

Instead of groaning, he sighs internally. Is this deliberate? He doesn’t care. Nagito is always one step ahead, always in his head before Hajime realises.

He stares into Nagito’s eyes. His pale irises flick between Hajime’s mismatched ones. He’s looking for Kamakura, but he’s off-guard and vulnerable, and it hits him all of a sudden; he’s looking for Kamakura but he’s hoping for Hajime. 

Nagito’s mouth is wet, lips parted in surprise at a kiss he wasn’t expecting. His tongue is small and lukewarm, his lips are soft like a girl’s, his arms fall listlessly to his sides. He _wilts_ under Hajime’s touch. This isn’t like before, on his knees, in Hajime’s cottage. This isn’t a transaction, it's a _feeling_ , and Hajime can do nothing to manipulate it, even if he wanted to. 

The other boy’s little gasps and whimpers leak out of him, like his adoration, like his energy, like his _Hope._ Hajime’s fingers are on his jaw, pressing into the sharp jut of his cheekbones, tilting his face up to tangle their tongues together, feeling his skin soft and hot and tearable beneath his touch, and it’s all _too much…_

He hasn’t thought about kissing Komaeda, not actively, anyway, but now his subconscious rears its head, now the human desire he has defended shows itself. When Hajime goes to retreat, Nagito reaches forward. Thin arms wind around his neck, a lean body presses up into his, a sigh slips between them, the lips he kisses press back, with intention, with a passion that grinds something in Hajime’s stomach, a dedication and insistence that he could lose himself in. Nagito kisses him like he is dying again, like it is all he has ever wanted to do. The unwavering, unbelievable, _inhuman_ conviction Nagito has always held is focused on this action, this feeling, and it shakes Hajime to his core. 

“Hajime, I think-“

He manages between the meeting of their mouths. Hajime actually _growls._

“You think? You _think_ ?! Will you ever just-“ their lips are close, Hajime brushes them together, feels Nagito’s hitch of breath even now, that he cannot hide, or that he doesn’t want to. He bites his bottom lip, pulls it, wants to draw blood, only draws a pathetic, simpering noise from Nagito. “Shut up. Do you _ever_ just... _shut...up…_ ”

When he drags Nagito into another kiss, all heat and frustration and confusion, he is reminded and reaffirmed of what he thought the other day in his cottage; _it is like this, then. It has been like this for a long time, perhaps even from the start._

Fireworks go off as they kiss. Literally. _His damn luck_ , Hajime thinks, as bright colours explode and shine through the membrane of his closed eyelids. The loud bangs cause Nagito to start, then quake, then latch onto Hajime even tighter. He’s missing the display they have all worked so hard to put together, but he cannot bring himself to care. The new year, only it isn’t new. A new emotion realised, only this isn’t new either.

“The others... Hajime. I’m sure they wouldn’t mind me not being there, but they’ll certainly miss you…” He speaks the words into Hajime’s mouth, and he feels disgusting and free all at once, pressing him back harder, guilty and frustrated and unwilling to move. 

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks. _Check_.

“...If you want to…” _Dodged._

“What do _you_ want?” One more move. _Check_.

“I want what you want.” _Missed again. One final move_.

Hajime retracts his grip, moves away from Naigto’s lips, draws back from his small, hot body. And Nagito watches him do it, bleary-eyed, and something instinctual snaps. His illusion drops for a moment. He grips Hajime’s hand, only for a second, before letting it go and following through with his promise.

_Checkmate._

Hajime moves back, cornering him against the tree trunk again, his shadow fragmenting the bursts of colorful light that illuminate Nagito’s face. He looks scared, but in a way that is more awe than genuine worry. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes shimmer, he looks _hungry_ …

“Do you want me here? Against this tree? Or in the dirt, where I belong, on my knees? Would you like me to beg?” The last word is choked; he is already begging.

He crushes himself against Nagito, thinking of his frailness, his birdlike stature; all hollow bones and thin tendons. He could hurt him; he knows where to press to make him snap, that’s a talent he has, somewhere stored away. His breath trembles against Nagito’s throat; the tendons beckon and Hajime obliges, dragging his teeth along the lines of muscle, thinking of ligaments and joints and fibres, thinking of the bits of biological matter that make up his body, that contain all of _him,_ this impossible concept held together by flimsy strings of flesh.

He clamps his teeth down on the skin of Nagito’s neck without realising. He hears the boy’s choked gasp, becoming a groan, a plea, feels his spine stiffen, his body tense, feels him hard against Hajime. He soothes the bite by turning it into a kiss; sucking the heated skin, the blood rushing to the surface under his tongue, his pulse spiking with the thought that he will so easily mark Nagito, as he marked him. 

He whispers against Nagito’s throat, his heartbeat thrumming against his lips; “You want me to use you? To say I am preserving my pet? I further Hope, so I must only want one as lowly as you for entertainment, right?”

“....Ngh...H-Hajim...eee....I...are you him....? Is he there? Does he hate me?”

“He’s weak. He’s fickle. He cannot sustain himself. I’ve won, Nagito. It’s me, not him. If you want him, you’re gonna be looking forever.”

He grinds his hips against Nagito’s, growing as obviously aroused as him, biting back his own noise of pleasure, while Nagito’s moan ripples through the still air, unashamed, almost _proud_.

“I...I’m glad!” He manages, and it reminds Hajime of the Simulation. “Oh, I’m glad it’s you…”

Their noses bump together as Hajime examines him. He can hide a lie in plain sight, he knows that much, but his honesty is startlingly clear up close. He supposes he will _never_ know, and perhaps that means he will have to learn to trust him, or re-learn at least. His expression of rapture is coloured green and blue after another firework explodes overhead. 

His hands are on Nagito’s belt before he even thinks to put them there. Nagito’s hips shift minutely in encouragement. His lips are parted and swollen, his stare is glassy, he is breathing heavily, as if even remaining standing is an effort. He looks anxious to be used, in _anticipation_ of it. The thought sickens Hajime. 

He moves his hands from Nagito’s pants to his face, pressing his palms lightly against his warm cheeks, drinking in his heady surprise. 

“It is always me now, don’t you see? We have...merged, but The Ultimate Hope is a lie, it was always a lie. There is no such thing. I exist here, I _won_ , because I am real. Because people _endure_ . Living for an abstract concept is barely living. Even your own logic is flawed, and you _know_ that.”

Nagito’s desperate, lustful, _human_ face is so close to his, so warm and breakable between Hajime’s palms, his eyes drinking in his words. His expression hollows as he thinks, as he takes this poison from the lips of one he reveres. His world creaks and groans under the weight of his impossible philosophy, and he clings to Hajime as it crumbles. Hajime can watch him listening to him, _understanding_ him, and the look in Nagito’s eyes, a desperate and sudden search for answers, is one he has never seen before on him. He thinks, for the first time, he may have _finally_ got through to him.

“So what do I live for?” He asks, faintly, his breath a whisper against Hajime’s skin. He leans his head into Hajime’s hold, as if asking him to physically support him.

“Yourself. Your friends. The future; hope in its _real_ form. Be kind to others and yourself, work hard but take time to relax, _heal_ from what has happened to you and ask me for anything you need.”

_Live for me, if you like_ , he almost says, but doesn’t. He is already too raw and exposed, has spent too much time giving pep talks that he is still in the process of believing himself, too much like Chiaki, who would stammer and sigh but would probably do a better job anyway, and _without_ pressing her hips against Nagito, like her body has its own ideas about what it needs. 

“Will you do that?” _For me_?

Another bang overhead; the sound of their classmates cheering and shouting from the beach just about reaches him. The kaleidoscope of light throws unusual shadows into the hollows of Nagito’s face; under his cheekbones, the jut of his jaw, the caves of his eye sockets, making him look menacing and impermanent, like a glitching computer programme, like something from his nightmares.

And then the colours fade, the last of the fireworks finished, and then it's just the moonlight, and Nagito is human again, weak and brilliant, Hajime’s classmate...foil... _friend_ …?

“Yeah...I’ll try, Hajime, I promise…” He manages, like someone in a trance.

Nagito’s breath comes easier, deeper, and Hajime feels his pulse slowing in response, as if he is relieved, like he’s _won_. He loosens his grip on his face, and brushes his thumbs against Nagito’s pink cheeks in a caress. He can feel his heart thumping against his temples, the beat that pushes him towards danger and broken things, inexplicably towards Nagito.

When he moves closer again, it has lost its carnal edge and becomes comforting. He wraps one arm around Nagito’s shoulders, feeling him brittle and tense under the unexpected gesture of affection, and uses his other hand to tilt Nagito’s chin up so he can press a kiss to the bridge of his nose.

“We will do it together.”

“Mmm.” His hum of affirmation is warm and grateful. He trembles a little in Hajime’s arms, but leans into the touch. His metal fingers still clutch at the waistband of Hajime’s pants, warm from his skin.

\- - - - -

When Hajime sees the shadows of the Simulation in the faces of his friends, he remembers that it is his fault. He put poison in their bloodstream. He’d almost lost himself in the process. 

But he hasn’t, he _didn’t_. He feels like he snatched the scraps of his soul from the jaws of some Leviathan monobeast. There are holes in him that are patched over with Kamakura, but a being of his magnitude could not endure, and so he just.... flares up from time to time, like a chronic illness. 

Nagito lives with the knowledge of Despair already in him. When they reverted him back to his pre-Junko self, they didn’t know how much of her ideas were already in his head, so inextricable from his personality that Despair is pretty much in his DNA. This is what Hajime has to work with. He is fighting with and against Nagito.

It is slow-going and painful. It is rewarding and hopeful. It is like extracting teeth, like exorcising something, like cutting a fishing net off a suffocating shark. Sometimes Nagito will look past him, his gaze on something over the horizon, something Hajime doesn’t understand but Kamakura could if he let him, which he won’t. Sometimes he is hardly there. And sometimes he is _so_ there that Hajime is full of him, gorged on his energy, his opinions, his exaltation, his breathy voice and widening grin. He can only meet him halfway, and after a while, as with everything, they grow used to it, and Nagito matches him too.

_He is in love with you_ , Kamakura supplies once, wholly unhelpfully. 

Hajime knows. He has known for a while, but he doesn’t mind. It is gratifying to see that Nagito’s infatuation with Hajime has become more about who Hajime is, mellowed into something regular humans are more likely to call love, than what it was before; a Hope fetish and absolutely no understanding of why or how to control his own obsession.

Trust is the most difficult thing, not the labelling of the emotions. Hajime cares for him, with a strength and direction he never expected to, and he is not afraid of it. Love has volume, and weight, and worth, and _use_ , in Hajime’s experience, and who better to give it to than Nagito, who needs and deserves it? Trust is the problem; he is unsure of himself and of Nagito, and the incomparable inner workings of both of them have him second-guessing almost everything, until he gets tired and lets it become second nature. In the early days, he thinks about Nagito a lot as a physical thing, not a conceptual, hypothetical, _narrative_ thing. A boy with a body. He corners Gundham, once in the ‘new year’, to talk to him about Sonia, to try to help his unusual, lonely friend reconcile physical touch with emotional support, rather than seeing it as an attack. The conversation gets him thinking about Nagito. He thinks about his mouth and his metal hand, about his damp eyes and soft cheeks, pink ears and growing hair, his awkward elegance and brittle bones. He thinks of his unwavering resolve and wholehearted commitment to pleasure. He thinks about him panting beneath him, lips swollen, looking up at Hajime like he’s a god.

He needs to trust him after that, which is not easy when neither of you know who you are, not _really_. But he has Nagito living in the present, for once. He has him eating like he can taste the food, interacting with others of his own accord, dressing himself like he cares, oiling his own prosthetic. Something about what he said to him on Not-New-Year’s clearly stuck, and his loftier purpose seems to have been put on hold in favor of recovery, which is all Hajime could have hoped for.

He thinks about an empty world that needs to be filled. He thinks about how, despite having a super genius living in his brain, other humans still constantly surprise him. He thinks about standing on the pier with his incredible, broken classmates, his reason for living, bonded to him like part of his soul, and waiting for a ship to come. He thinks about Nagito, in the early hours of the morning, walking a dripping-wet Mikan back to her cottage, wrapped in his sweater. He thinks about Nagito, hogtied on the floor, asking Hajime to feed him breakfast with barely a hint of shame. 

_The Future has always been inevitable_ , Kamakura thinks.

Hajime scoffs to himself, and picks the soda Nagito likes to take to his cottage for him, dragging his fingers along the battered edge of the broken arcade machine, as he always does, and thinks to himself, ‘ _Yeah? So what?’_


	5. Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ayyy, more girls! Not a Tsumiki fan (or at least not majorly), but I think she was done dirty by her fanservice-y design and good ol’ DR Trail 3 Culprit Character Assassination™. I love Ibuki, and I think she’d be perfect to help Mikan with all her issues, so this was actually really nice to write, and it made me see Mikan in a better light. Also they're called BANDAID for God's sake. 
> 
> Thank you SO MUCH for the response to the last chapter. I'm so glad people felt I did the biggest ship in the fandom justice xxx
> 
> CHAPTER WARNINGS: mentions of sexual abuse, allusions to suicide

The silence in Mikan’s head is unrelenting.

She feels stray thoughts bounce around her hollowed skull like a ball ricocheting. She hears the dull echo of an empty space where her very essence seems to have gone missing.

She remembers the screams that didn’t stop. The Despair Disease has actually worked to some degree in that she seems to remember more than her classmates about the time before. The memories are hazy and unspecific, but she remembers the screams. She thinks she hears metal on metal, cracking and squelching, a remorseless laugh that may or may not be her own.

She is not Despair anymore. Some days, it takes a lot of convincing to get herself to believe that.

_ Didn’t you get the message, Tsumiki? Weren’t you listening to me? Love is forever, sweet thing. Love is eternal. Love resists. Love doesn’t let you go. _

She feels like someone has let her go. She feels untethered, unbound, unreal, sometimes. And the noise in her head is white; empty and exhausting.  _ Nothing, nothing, nothing, then something, then nothing again… _

“It’s ok to struggle to adjust.” Kirigiri is near. She is speaking to Mikan. Mikan doesn’t look at her, feels  _ scared _ to look at her.

“We will put you in intensive therapy. If you suffer from more blackouts, bouts of hysteria, memory loss or manic episodes, the doctors will be trained at dealing with it. Do you understand where you are?”

Mikan shakes. Her muscles are tired from shaking all day and all night. She knows it would be rude not to answer, when Kirigiri is only trying to help.

“Um...yes...I am i-in the r-real world, now. The w-world before was....n-not real?”

She phrases it as a question but it isn’t really. 

“Yes, that is correct. And you are?”

“A-alive.”

Not the answer she was looking for, but she nods politely anyway. She is so polite, so put-together, so refined and intelligent. Mikan shakes and shakes. 

“Yes, alive. Do you know your ultimate talent?”

“Mm.” She nods. Her throat hurts. The hospital is quiet, and Kirigiri’s voice is smooth and soft. Mikan’s high-pitched wail ruins it, ruins the tranquility of it. She wishes she could shut herself up but ignoring Kirigiri would be rude, and she doesn’t want to do that.

“I am the Ultimate Nurse.”

“Yes. You are. You still hold this title, now Junko Enoshima’s brainwashing has been reversed by a successful removal from the Neo World Programme.”

The sound of her name scratches down into Mikan’s ears and bursts against her eardrums. She starts, physically, she cannot help it. She recoils into her hospital bedding.

“When you are well, we have many things here at this hospital that we will need your advice on.”

Her head goes quiet, a nice quiet, for once. She looks at Kirigiri, into her cool lilac eyes.

“M-my advice?”

“Of course. Who better than the Ultimate Nurse to help us?”

_ A job to do _ . She would love to have a job to do. She needs to be useful, to keep her hands busy, to stitch people together and pump them full of blood and shock them back to life. She needs to get out of her own bed and go and sit by someone else’s. 

When she is focused and diligent, when she is helping instead of getting under everybody’s feet, the sounds in her head get quieter, the taunting and the tempting all shut up for a minute.

“You will have to help us with you, first. We cannot keep you on suicide watch, after everything done to bring you back. We can make sure you are cared for and supervised, but I imagine you wouldn’t like that in the long term?”

She’s being watched, she’s taking up more of these people’s attention, more effort wasted on her, and the monster she’s always been, the monster Junko let loose. Wasting everyone’s time,  _ again _ , because she cannot be trusted. How ungrateful.  _ How disgusting. _

“I’ll...I mean, I....be fine. I’ll be fine. I’m sorry. I…” 

“We don’t need you to be better, we just need to know that you will try.”

That much she can do. Succeed or fail, for better or for worse, she can always try. She bites her lip to stop it wobbling and nods at Kirigiri.

\- - - - -

_ “It’s ok! I promise I’m not mad, coulda happened to anyone!” _

_ “H-huh? But it didn’t. It happened to me, because I am weak and everyone else was stronger.” _

_ “It happened to you because that’s what Monokuma wanted! That’s what Junko wanted! You weren’t weak, you were targeted!” _

_ “I...I tried to help, I just wanted to help and now everybody hates me…” _

_ “Ibuki doesn’t hate you! Why else would I be here?” _

_ “But...you should hate me most of all?” _

_ “Well, don’t try to talk logic to an illogical being! Ibuki does -not- hate you! In fact, Ibuki thinks we should be friends!” _

_ “Ahh! Friends?!” _

_ “Yeah!” _

_ “W-why? I did such a terrible, horrible, unforgivable thing!” _

_ “I forgive you! There: it's not unforgivable! What else could you be wrong about, hm?” _

\- - - - -

She cannot blame Saionji. If she had any bite, she’d want revenge too. They carry her from Mikan’s room, kicking and screaming, clawing at the air around her, and all Mikan can do is cry and cry and cry. The world is blurry most of the time.

The white noise in her head is taunting.  _ If I so desperately want forgiveness, I have to apologise. _

_ More than that, I have to make amends _ .

She knows how to evade medication, of course, but she thinks about Ibuki, deciding to forgive her for some reason, asking to be friends, and maybe there is hope because of that. She sits still and stays quiet and lets them prod and poke and fill her with the nutrients she has been starving herself of. She tries and tries with the therapist. She does everything she can think of to be discharged. She is so eager, so  _ desperate _ , to stop being a burden.

The silence is still there, an oppressive silence that makes her long for the days when her head was all discordant music and screaming and laughter. When she was filled with someone else’s thoughts, it made it easier to ignore her own.

\- - - - -

“Do you prefer being a boy or a girl?”

“I don’t have a preference.”

“C’mon! You must do! Skirts are fun but makeup is a pain.”

“I take on more male personas. I suppose it is easier.” Says The Imposter. Today they are dressed like Togami. Ibuki has noticed this as a favorite of the Imposter, but they tend to switch to somebody else when the real Togami is scheduled to visit.

“I haven’t seen you do a girl yet.”

“Mn. My options are limited by what I have to hand.” They say, in a perfect replication of Togami’s low, clipped voice.

“Ah! I see! Clothes and makeup and the like! I feel your pain, Ibuki would sure like to re-dye her hair!”

When she awoke, her hair was longer than she had ever let it grow. The dye was faded and washed out, her roots growing through, the whole mess of it dry and unkempt. She would say she was embarrassed if there wasn’t a thousand other, more important things she was worrying about, like the poke of her ribs through the skin of her chest, like the constant cramping in her right hand that the doctors said was RSI, like the occasional difficulty breathing usually accompanied by  _ really frustrating _ bouts of nausea, like the seemingly random and paralysing trauma flashbacks that they all got, that could be triggered by anything at anytime as their minds shielded them from the memories of what they had done as Despair. 

Yeah, her hair was the least of her problems. 

She and Kazuichi had raided the supermarket, less well-stocked and tidy as in the Simulation, but there was some hair dye. She saw him chewing his lip, him squeezing his eyes shut, him fidgeting with the last packet of pink. She had told him to take it. Her hair was now its natural black, cut above her waist one more, lacking her trademark horn cones, run through with two shades of blue. She would brand this her ‘mature’ look for her slow-emotional-synth phase. She’d make it work.

Her clothes aren’t hers either. Most people have managed to scrape together some semblance of their Simulation uniform from what they were put under in and what the Future Foundation has brought them, but Kyoko says they were forced to cut her out of her clothes as she kept trying to suffocate herself.

She doesn’t really like to think about that! 

So she’s been given a black skirt and a white shirt. She keeps trying to bleach parts of it to make it ‘pop’, but Naegi is reluctant to give any of them bleach. She has scribbled all over the shirt with some multi-colored markers she found, and has cut holes in most of her tights, but it still doesn’t feel like  _ her _ . She hates silence, hates plain colours, hates sitting still and hates feeling gloomy. She wants the color and music and velocity and mania of her old life. She wants to make such a disturbance that the world spins the other way, and she’s in front of a huge crowd once more, making her own teeth vibrate with her amp’s reverb. 

She doesn’t feel like herself, no matter how much she is trying. She cannot imagine what it is like for the Imposter, who cannot even pretend to be other people properly.

“Hey! I have a good idea!” She perks up. The Imposter looks at her. They sit on the deckchairs by the hotel’s pool. They are weathered and unvarnished, and she thinks she has already got splinters in her thighs, but the Imposter was sitting alone in silence, looking pensive, and she likes them so she’d invited herself to join them.

“Hm?” They ask.

“Be me! Do me! They say you used to imitate our classmate, right? So you could toooootally do it!”

“Be...you?”

“Yeah! I got looooads of clothes! My hair will be real easy to do if you’ve got wigs! It’s a total mess after all! And none of my clothes really fit me properly so it shouldn’t be too hard to adjust them a little.”

“Would you...want that?”

“Of course! It would be funny! What’s better than Ibuki, hm?  _ Two _ Ibukis!”

The Imposter observes her. Their gaze is penetrating, and she fidgets. She wishes she had her rings; she used to twist them round and round her fingers when she needed to get rid of excess energy. The only jewelry she has now is metal she’s managed to find on the island; bits of mechanical staples, metal rings from Electric Avenue, anything Kazuichi finds and cleans and gives to her, perhaps to say thank you for the hair dye. Most of the makeshift jewelry she wears in her ears and under her lips to keep her piercings open. They hurt like hell when she had them done, and it would be a total waste to let them close up.

_ Ha ha! Perhaps Not-Byakuya knows I am Not-Ibuki! Although of course Ibuki is Ibuki! Ibuki just needs some music, that’s all! Nice try, Not-Byakuya! _

“Well, if it will make you feel better, I will think on it.” They say, benevolently, not Byakuya-like at all. Since meeting the real Togami, there is no denying how much more considerate the Imposter is.

“Ha ha! Ibuki will teach you everything you need to know! Leave no rhinestone unturned, and you’ll be a better Ibuki than the  _ real _ Ibuki!”

\- - - - -

She thinks about Mikan a lot. That’s kind of annoying. Ibuki struggles to focus on one thing for too long, getting bored of puzzles she cannot solve and things that move or speak or work too slowly. She doesn’t remember her death; a blessing, she guesses, considering the way Nagito stares at his own hands or Teruteru zones out and stands, shaking, facing the wall. Mikan doesn’t seem to remember either. When she visits her in hospital, she trembles and sobs and apologises, but once Ibuki shows she has no intention of abandoning her attempts at friendship, Mikan lets it slip.

“I don’t know what happened, but it must have been terrible! How can you forgive me?! Why are you doing this?”

“You don’t know? How can you blame yourself when you don’t even know?”

Mikan weeps, sniffs, rubs her eyes, and her gaze is as misty and confused as her memory of her death is.

“That disease must have got us good! I don’t remember it either! They say you made me hang myself, which means I must have been on some strong stuff because Ibuki would never do that! How selfish, how  _ cruel _ , to risk damaging my vocal chords and robbing the world of my music forever!” She attempts a lightness she barely feels. The sound of the monitor hooked up to Mikan beeping suddenly seems overwhelmingly loud.

“We...have both forgotten?”

“Yeah, looks like it! Thank goodness, right? The others aren’t so lucky. If you don’t remember it, and I don’t remember it, and it’s all that damn bear’s fault, then we should just forget it, right? You have nothing to be sorry for and I have nothing to be angry about! We weren’t ourselves.”

This logic seems to get through to Mikan, if only temporarily. 

“N-not ourselves?”

“Nuh-uh, doncha think?”

“O-oh…”

“And I’m not dead! And you’re not in Despair! So, it’s kinda like it never happened, right?”

“Never h-happened?”

“Yeah! So don’t worry about me! And stop asking me to forgive you when you haven’t done anything!” Ibuki prepares to force a smile, but finds she doesn’t have to. She pities Mikan, of course, but also envies her. She feels her honesty, her sensitivity, her talent, her movement and noise, and covets it. She’s off-the-rails, but she’s also plugged-in, and feeling a lot is better than feeling nothing. If Ibuki can only convince her to let her fear and self-hatred go, she’d be up and practical and better and helping.

_ Help yourself by helping others _ \- that’s the kind of sentiment Ibuki likes, the kind of skill Ibuki envies.

The hot, blurry hours spent under the influence of the Despair Disease come to an abrupt, sudden, neutral end. That is all Ibuki remembers. Mikan was infected too - they share the blank emptiness.

There’s no time to sit and dwell and think and stagnate. Ibuki will make Mikan better. She will  _ show _ her she forgives her, so there can be no mistake. She will be her friend.

\- - - - -

She meant to go to the music venue. She’s all itchy and fizzy, wanting something to strum or bash or blow, make some noise and liven this quiet, dying island up a bit! But she got to the doors, and froze. The sign reads ‘IT Y Y HOON’, the painted front is faded and peeling, the lights are shattered, and the wind has taken most of the gutter. It’s probably super water-damaged inside. It’s probably really seedy and sticky and dark, not like the high-school-student-friendly version they’d been given in the Programme. There probably aren’t even any musical instruments inside anyway; why would there be? All the stuff Kazuichi has managed to wire and screw together was in tiny, broken bits before he worked his magic; what makes her think there will be a fully functioning guitar or keyboard inside? 

Yeah, it’d be a waste of time. Most of the buildings on the Third Island don’t even have a power supply, and the windows are blacked out, so it would be super dark.

She’s shaking a bit as she leaves but it is probably just because the Third Island’s winds are the strongest and the coldest.

So now she’s here, at what used to be the Ranch, with Hiyoko, for lack of anything better to do.

“So the idea is to lift the end of it up with your finger,  _ here _ , and then wait until one of them crawls on, and then  _ whoosh! _ ” Hiyoko’s growth spurt hasn’t done much for her personality, but Ibuki is just glad she isn’t the target of her sadism today.

She slams her index finger onto the end of the popsicle stick as a big black beetle finally scuttles onto the opposite end. The pebble she has propped it against acts as a fulcrum and the seesaw becomes a catapult. The beetle arcs through the air and lands in the pile of its dazed comrades, stuck on its domed back, its legs wriggling in the air.

“I see. I’d rather just watch you do it. Didn’t you used to press them until they died?”

“Hmph. Yeah, but that got old. Don’t wanna kill them anyway, just stun them a bit.” She mumbles. Ibuki takes this reluctant tone as one of honesty.

Ibuki can’t think of anything to say.  _ Why can’t she think of anything to say?! _

“I heard you were trying to talk some sense into that nasty crazy bitch at the hospital. Why bother? If we let her out of her room she’ll just go full psycho and kill us again, you know?”

Ibuki’s good at voices, and she can read the suppressed fear in Hiyoko’s easily.

“She won’t, I don’t think. I barely remember anything from getting the disease, and she only reverted to Despair because she caught it, right? That basically means she only went as crazy as the rest of us used to be because she was so dedicated to helping us get better. It’s kinda heroic, if you ask me, like what they say Tanaka did!”

“ _Really?!_ _That’s_ what you think?! Jeez, you’re as bad as she is! You won’t catch me _anywhere_ near her!”

She slams her finger down onto the popsicle-stick-seesaw  _ hard _ . Her victim is thrown high in the air and lands squirming in the dust several feet away. Hiyoko pouts.

“Well, as long as you don’t try and attack her again, I guess you don’t have to go near her.” Ibuki twists a lock of blue hair around her fingers. She misses her fingerless gloves. There are calluses on her fingertips so deep they are actual indents in the skin. 

“Mahiru says I should forgive her, but that’s really dumb. She hasn’t forgiven Peko or Fuyuhiko! I  _ know _ she hasn’t! How could she?! How could anyone?!”

“I...suppose we just have to think about it differently?” Ibuki offers, brushing dust from the knees of her tights. “Holding grudges is too much of a pain. Ibuki doesn’t like feeling bad, so she just decides not to!” Things are easier to ignore when you power through with a smile, she doesn’t say.

“You can only say that because you’re dumb. Your head is totally empty, no wonder you don’t feel normal things.”

Ibuki laughs. Hiyoko looks startled at the sound. “Maybe you’ve got a point! Feeling bad things is just so boring, you know?”

Hiyoko chews on her lip, tugs on her kimono. Ibuki wonders why she still wears one when there are plenty of normal clothes available. At least she can tie it herself now.

“That’s why I spend time with Mahiru. She isn’t boring or stupid or mean like the rest of you.”

“Exactly! She makes you feel good things, not bad things.”

“Then you should find someone like that and not waste time on pig barf like Mikan. The others....I guess they’re not  _ so _ bad. It’s not like we have a choice, anyway.” She mumbles, pinching another beetle between her fingernails, placing it on the end of her catapult. It seems like genuine advice, despite its unsympathetic packaging.

“Maybe Ibuki can kill two stones with one bird and be nice to Mikan! We can be each other’s nice person!”

Hiyoko blows a raspberry. “Whatever. You’re so weird. It’s cringey.”

The conversation was the closest to normal that Ibuki has had since waking up.

\- - - - -

Empowered by Hiyoko’s surprising admission, Ibuki feels similarly driven to better her life and reclaim her old self. She won’t be wearing kimonos or torturing insects or following Mahiru around, but if Hiyoko can do stuff that reminds her of the time spent inside the Simulation, then it should be easy for Ibuki to do the same.

‘IT Y Y HOON’ waits for her, crouched and vaguely threatening, probably  _ crawling _ with bugs, but strangely inviting nonetheless. It’s a music venue; it was  _ her place _ when they discovered it in the Simulation. She’ll make it her place again in the real world, if that is what this is.

The doors squeal on unoiled hinges as she forces them open, like a cluster chord. She switches on her torch and peers inside.

It  _ is _ different to the venue she knew. There are water-damaged, peeling posters covering the walls, some promoting musical acts, some advertising drinks, some just pictures of scantily-clad women with dyed hair and tongue piercings. The bar is bigger, and looks well-used, but has been gutted so there is no alcohol left. The stage has a few wobbly-looking boards towards the edges where the wood is rotting; there is a leak in one corner of the room that makes the floor slippy and air smell stagnant. There is a door to the backstage area and a lighting desk and stained curtain hanging at the back of the stage. When she flicks the light switch, nothing happens.

“Hm! No power! Just as Ibuki thought!” She narrates, out loud, to herself.

She gets to work. There must be  _ something _ here she can use to make a noise.

There are two windows, unlike the venue in the Simulation, at the back of the room behind the bar. They are painted over black, but are still made of glass. She picks a loose beer tap off the floor and smashes the windows open with it. Light streams in from the two new openings and the open double doors behind her, and she can see now. 

The venue looks even worse in daylight, but at least she can move around easier.

The electricity is bust, so the lighting desk shows no signs of life. She turns her attention to the door to the backroom. It takes several shoves of her shoulder to force it open, its hinges having rusted shut.

The room beyond is dark, musty-smelling, and cluttered. The beam of her torch reveals stacks of cardboard boxes in varying states of decay, kegs of what she assumes is incredibly expired beer, stacks of chairs and folded-up tables, a huge safe with its door open, showing its lack of contents, and hard black shapes that Ibuki identifies with a flurry of excitement.

_ Instrument cases! _

Four of them are empty, which sucks since she’s always wanted to try the accordion, but right at the back... _ yes! _

A guitar. Not a new one, not an expensive one, and not in the best condition, but it has all its strings and frets intact.  _ Bullseye! _

Without an amp, the strings twang muted and metallic, and it is  _ horribly _ out-of-tune, but she sits on the edge of the stage, swinging her legs and humming along with each strum and altering the machine heads. She’s glad to find she can still pitch from memory; she isn’t the Ultimate Musician for  _ nothing _ .

It’s acoustic, discordant, little more than a shallow vibration of wire without the amp, but it’s  _ music _ . When the guitar is tuned, she starts to strum whatever chords float into her head. It sounds like a hesitant, ridiculous, undeniable hope. The music is, well...music to her ears.

She sits on the stage, under the shadow of the lighting baton, in a dark and empty music bar, and plays simple melodies on an ampless electric guitar. It is peaceful, and healing, and  _ right _ . Her fingers move without instruction. Her eyes close because she doesn’t need to see. Her mind swims with hazy memories, flashes of her past, and for once they are  _ good _ .

Only someone with hearing as keen as hers would pick up on the gasp from the open doors, small and startled, like a mouse. She opens her eyes and meets Mikan’s, who is frozen in horror in the entryway, framed against the dying light of the evening.  _ Wow, a lot of time has passed, huh! _

She stops playing. Mikan’s eyes fill with tears as she looks at Ibuki. The memories the latter had been wallowing in turn sour. She remembers through a haze of heat and exhaustion a face, like the face of salvation, shifting into focus, telling her everything will be alright, asking her to follow, guiding her through those doors, onto this stage, pulling out a length of rope…

Ibuki puts the guitar to one side and hops off the stage.

“Ibuki...you-you’re here? I th-thought it was closed off!”

“It wasn’t locked or anything, and I wanted to see if there were any instruments.”

Mikan swallows. Ibuki feels a chill down her spine.

_ If I can’t believe my own bullshit, why should anybody else?! _

“I found one, look!”

“A guitar?” Mikan clasps her hands together, scrunching her shoulders up, looking thin and frail in the entryway. Even if she hadn’t decided to trust this Mikan, the  _ real _ Mikan, she shouldn't worry that she may pose any kind of physical threat.

“Yeah! Wanna take a look? I’ll have to ask Kazuichi to make an amp, but it still plays nicely if you’re quiet!”

“Ah...um…” Ibuki wonders what Mikan is here for. She keeps glancing up at the ceiling, across at the pillars on either side of the stage, then at Ibuki with painful, pleading eyes.

“C’mon! I’ll teach you a bit, if you like! Music makes everything better!”

A flash of hollow fear flickers in Mikan’s expression, as if Ibuki has unintentionally struck a chord. And then she surprises them both by nodding hesitantly.

“If you put your fingers  _ here _ ...that’s a G! And then  _ A _ . And then  _ D sharp _ , and...woahhh that’s a C minor seventh, you’re getting ahead of yourself, Cobain!” 

Mikan had taken almost ten minutes to settle on the stage beside Ibuki, another ten to shift steadily close enough to accept the guitar when it was offered to her, and then another ten to attempt to play a chord. Once she’s gripping it properly, Ibuki carefully places her fingers over Mikan’s to direct them more accurately, strumming the strings along with her, pressing her pinkie onto the E string when it loses its strength, helping her play with the confidence the instrument demands. After a while, Mikan’s focus narrows, her gaze sharpens, she seems more present, like she is when she’s taking care of someone, Ibuki thinks. She starts and squeaks when she plays a wrong note, but Ibuki finds herself uncharacteristically patient.

It isn’t difficult to be near Mikan now. She doesn’t even ask why she was here in the first place, or when she got discharged from the hospital, or  _ if _ she has even been discharged. With music to fill the silence, she feels calmer, more steady, with a purpose. With noise instead of quiet, Mikan doesn’t feel the need to cry or apologise or squeal or sob. After an hour, she can play a simple four-chord sequence competently, resting the guitar in her lap, her face fixed in concentration, her skin against Ibuki’s without flinching. 

_ “Harmony.” _ Ibuki thinks.

\- - - - -

Things ease after that. Ibuki seeks out that calm, focused,  _ real  _ look that Mikan got when she was learning the guitar, but tries not to be too obvious about it. The last thing she needs is Mikan thinking she’s Ibuki’s experiment. 

Anyway, when they move Mikan back into her cottage a few weeks later, Ibuki invites herself over.

“And  _ I _ think Sonia likes Gundham! Have ya noticed how they’re always together! Soooo cute, right? I mean he’s super weird, but so is she so it kinda fits. According to Akane, it was a whole thing during his class trial, but obviously we wouldn’t have noticed since we were d-e-a-d by then!” She sprawls herself across Mikan’s bed, head hanging off the edge. The room is inverted. Upside-Down-Mikan presses her lips together and nods.

“Th-that is very nice! I am g-glad our friends are finding happiness with each other…”

“Weeeell, it seems like it may be more trouble than it’s worth, you know? The Almighty Emperor of Emo-ville is still all shook up, by the looks of it. But I bet he likes her too and is just shy! That would be  _ totes _ adorable, right?! I just  _ love _ it when he blushes, don’t you? Makes him look like a high schooler. A  _ real _ high schooler!’

Ibuki prattles on about Nagito for a while after that, filling silence like she normally does, until she realises she no longer has Mikan’s attention. The other girl looks uncomfortable, maybe Ibuki should leave her alone. That’s probably what she wants and she’s just too polite to say so. Another, closer look reveals that isn’t the problem; she’s scrunching her body up again, trying to tuck her shoulders in, tugging at the ends of her hair.

She  _ had _ been meaning to say…

“Heyyyyy Mikan! I have an idea!”

She jolts to attention with a surprised noise. “Ah! What is it? Do I smell? Should I get out?! I’m  _ sorry _ !”

“‘Get out’? I’m in  _ your _ room, silly!” She sits up and swings round so she’s facing the right way again, pausing for a moment to let her dizziness settle and the blood rush out of her head. “How about I cut your hair?”

“M-my hair?”

“Yeah! It’s bothering you, right?”

Mikan’s eyebrows crease together.  _ Gotcha! _

“I cut my own hair, you see. My mom wouldn’t let me have it done the way I wanted so I just did it myself! So I’m  _ totally _ capable and extremely qualified! What do you say? You wanna put your faith in Ibuki?!”

“I…um…” 

She half expects Mikan to burst into tears and let her do whatever she wants, but she wants  _ Mikan to want it _ too, so she’s patient for once.

“C-could you really? Could you c-cut it?”

Ibuki grins, showing her teeth, bouncing on the mattress a little in excitement.

“Sure could! No problem-o! Wait here, I’ll go find some scissors. Do you have a comb?”

Mikan shakes her head. _ No wonder it looks so messy. _

“That’s fine! You can borrow Ibuki’s for now! They have them at the supermarket, for future reference.”

It takes some coaxing to get the doctor she comes across in the hospital to lend her a pair of medical scissors, but the ones in Rocketpunch Market were blunt and she couldn’t find any in the kitchen. After swearing she will bring them back and not leave them with Mikan, she returns to the cottages victorious.

“ _ Voila _ ! Leave it to Ibuki!” Mikan hasn’t bolted, which Ibuki worried she might. She’s sitting on the edge of her bed, tugging the skirt of her simple grey dress down to her knees nervously.

“Sit on the chair, please! I’ll have you looking a million bucks in no time!”

Mikan does as she’s told. Ibuki takes her tangled, damaged hair in both her hands and pulls it over her shoulders so it falls down her back. Mikan shivers at the brief contact. 

“Now then, how short do you want it? You wanna keep it long? Or maybe Chiaki’s length? Or Mahiru’s? Oh  _ pleeeeeease _ let me do it like Kuzuryuu’s!”

“No!” Squeaks Mikan, and Ibuki laughs, and so she relaxes again under her hands.

“Only joking! How about just past your shoulders? That would look nice!”

“Um...ok.”

It’s hard work, getting the comb through. She wants to ask Mikan to go and wash it, but the circumstances seem delicate and she doesn’t want to spook the other girl, so she makes do. Her arms ache and the skin of her palm feels raw when she’s finally brushed the tangles out. 

It doesn’t help that the nurse’s hair is all cut to different lengths already. This means she has to find the shortest lock and cut the rest to match it, unless she develops the ability to make hair grow within the next half hour. She hums as she works, separating the hair into workable chunks, clipping it to one side, smoothing the comb through until it shines. Mikan stays quiet, but seems happy to let Ibuki work and fill the silence in her own way. Ibuki talks when she’s bored of humming, about the food and the music venue and how cool it is that, for a while, Nekomaru was a robot. She’s pleased to find that Mikan is listening, and chips in with a short, hesitant reply when Ibuki waits for one. 

Between them, it isn’t so quiet. And when it is, at least it is peacefully quiet.

Mikan’s hair is surprisingly thick, and by the time she’s finished her eyes are mazy from concentration and the skin between her index finger and her thumb is sore where the scissors have pinched. Mikan’s hair is a single sheet of smooth darkness, stopping at the bottom of her shoulder blades and falling obedient and straight over her shoulders. It isn’t as shiny as it could be, but it hasn’t been washed yet. She gives it a gentle tug before moving round to Mikan’s face and kneeling between her legs.

Mikan lets out a little yelp when Ibuki pushes her knees apart to make room for herself. She stops, a hand on Mikan’s thigh and alarm in her eyes. 

“Sorry!  _ Sorry _ , I should have asked, haha! If you’re uncomfortable, that’s fine, I can back off. I just need to do your bangs.”

The explanation eases Mikan and she shakes her head, sitting back in her chair, visibly swallowing as she forces the tension out. Ibuki berates herself for touching her without thinking, for pressing into her space and into her vision without telling her why.

_ You’ve got to be careful with your new friend! _

She moves onto Mikan’s fringe, pulling it between her fingers and trimming it into a straight line. Her tongue pokes out between her teeth as she concentrates. When she’s finished, her eyes refocus on Mikan’s face, and she is staring at her with wide, curious, nervous eyes. Ibuki freezes, caught for a moment in their depths, like staring down at a swimming pool from the tallest diving board, kinda scared, kinda pitying, and then blinks her own concerns away and beams at Mikan, wide and toothy and genuine. Mikan’s lips quiver in a hesitant reciprocal smile.

“There! All done! You look  _ lovely, _ madame! Behold, I shall bring you a mirror!”

She lifts the mirror off the wall and brings it to the chair Mikan sits in, presenting her with her own transformed reflection. Mikan’s eyes widen again, and Ibuki sees a pink blush rising in her cheeks. 

“Ah! Wow…” She says as she peers at herself. She looks neater, calmer, more mature and put-together, like a young woman and not like an asylum escapee.

“Ibuki...you are s-so talented!” She says shakily. Ibuki beams at the compliment. 

Mikan’s eyes glitter with unshed tears and she screws her face up as she fights back sudden sobs. “You didn’t n-need to spend so m-much time trying to make me look nice! How thoughtful of you! How wonderful you are! To w-waste your time on me and make me look like this! Thank you Ibuki, I am so sorry for t-taking up your time, please forgive me!”

Taken aback without good reason to expect anything different, it takes Ibuki a moment to realise she is laughing. Not a mocking, degrading laugh, but a surprised and amused laugh. Mikan blinks up at her in confusion, her lip wobbling.

“C’mon! Don’t be like that! We had fun, right? You don’t have to thank me for everything, or apologise. We were just hanging out! Thank  _ you _ for letting me go all Sweeney Todd on ya!”

Mikan seems so shocked that Ibuki is laughing at her that her mouth closes and she stops apologising.

“You look all pretty now! We should go and show everyone else, they’ll be green with envy! Hey Mikan, maybe you have kick-started my destiny as a hairdresser, wouldn’t that be sweet? Come on!”

She pulls Mikan out of the chair but the nurse stills in an uncharacteristic display of self-determination. 

“I would l-like to shower first, if that is ok? I haven’t bathed since I left the hospital.”

Ibuki grins. “Of course! How silly of me! And your new ‘do will look even better when it's all conditioned and sparkly! I’ll wait here.” 

Mikan looks like she wants to argue, but when Ibuki sits on her bed again, she looks almost  _ relieved _ as she heads into the bathroom.

\- - - - -

Instead of screaming, it is laughing now.

_ No, no, NO!  _ Things have been nice. Recently, it has been quiet; not unrelenting silence, but the bubbling, peaceful sort of white noise that is the sound of the sea or Ibuki talking about nothing in particular. Mikan seeks others out now, and Ibuki makes her feel less like a waste of space and more like a happy accident. She likes that. She likes steady company without the expectation of too much social involvement. She is more than content to just listen and respond when required. She is even beginning to believe Ibuki when she said she had forgiven her.

But one day she wakes, disorientated, hot, angry and scared, with a tiny, powerful voice banging against her temples, laughter like thunder with no source in reality.

It’s four o’clock in the morning and she cannot stay in her cottage.

The trees of the first island look like hundreds of tall, looming figures. The sea looks black and bottomless in the cloudy night. Every twitch and tremble of the world around her is mocking. She runs, stumbling, until her legs give out and then curls up in a compact ball on the tarmac outside the airport, rocking back and forth, sobbing and begging, waiting helplessly for the laughing to stop.

She loses herself in a past with no images, nothing concrete to remember, just a  _ feeling _ , just a sound. It is so loud she cannot hear her own thoughts over those planted there by someone else. She wonders if she is screaming.

When the sun rises she quakes for another reason; people will be waking up. She cannot be seen. She cannot look in their eyes now she knows she still carries Her in her head. She runs back, realising too late that her knees are badly grazed, blood dripping down her bare legs. She slams her cottage door shut, locking it, and muffles her sobs with her pillow, wishing she had the strength to suffocate herself, wishing she had never woken up from the Simulation and was floating in the in-between stages of nothingness with no noise, wishing she had never been born at all. She’s so scared. She had almost forgotten what true terror feels like. 

She stays like that all day, not even cleaning her knees, clinging to her pillow, bleeding onto her bedsheets, shaking with exhaustion and crying until she’s dehydrated. She thinks, maybe, Ibuki comes, knocks on her door, calls to her, but she cannot hear her over the laughter, familiar and maniacal and all-consuming, and she clamps her mouth shut and closes her eyes and prays and prays that none of them see her like this. They will remember who she is and what she’s done. They’ll never  _ ever _ forgive her, and she cannot blame them.

_ Aren’t you tired of cleaning up other people’s messes? Come on, I promise you will be safe. There is only so much one person can take. _

She doesn’t rest or eat, doesn’t change out of the shirt and shorts she had gone to bed in the night before, instead she waits until she can no longer stand the pressure, her lungs collapsing from anxiety, and ventures out again for some fresh air. 

It is night once more. An entire day passed without her realising. The air is balmy and heavy, not at all the cold shock she so desperately needs. She moves to the boardwalk, splinters digging into the soles of her feet, legs shaking where her muscles have seized up, and stands, staring out to sea, reaching for an intangible horizon that she cannot perceive in any concrete way with the night’s darkness and cloud cover. She wants to scream, but she is worried someone will hear and come and ask her what is wrong. The laughing in her head is high-pitched and scornful, now, having barely abated in its tirade all day, and she just wants it to  _ stop _ . She cannot believe she hated silence, once.

_ Cold shock _ , she hears over the din. Maybe that is what she needs; a restart.

The surface of the water hits her like a slap to the face. It is certainly a cold shock.

Under the surface, everything is quiet. She feels numbed against sensory perception, everything moving slowly, everything muted and sluggish, calm and unaffected by whatever happens above. She cannot see. Salt stings her eyes. She was in before she could think about it, and her lungs complain of the lack of air.

She floats, suspended, under the waves, in perfect stillness, where anything could be happening, could be  _ waiting _ around her, but she cannot perceive it. It’s quiet.

She could stay here and let the tide carry her out to sea.

The Simulation must have done its job, however. The survival instinct is too strong. She breaks the surface and gasps in air almost involuntarily. Her respiratory system passes the oxygen into her bloodstream and expels what is left. She understands the mechanics, but not the desire for it. 

Her sight comes back, her eyes still sore from the salt water. A pale smudge appears before her, standing above on the boardwalk, peering down at her in the water. She blinks until her vision clears. It is Komaeda.

“Mikan? I thought I saw someone. Wow, lucky I came by!” He says brightly, reaching down and grasping her arm, hauling her out of the ocean and onto the wooden slats beside him without asking for permission.

She shivers, dripping onto the wood, unable to speak, shocked by his brashness, by his lack of surprise, by his voice and his person, by the sounds outside of her head.

“Why were you swimming this late? It could be dangerous. And you’re not even wearing a bathing suit!” His smile is calm, befuddled, like she’s made a silly mistake. He slips his pale arms out of his grey sweatshirt and pulls it over his head. He is wearing a thin white t-shirt beneath. The part of her that is good, that is  _ her _ , calls out;  _ he should be eating more _ .

He puts the sweatshirt on her without asking. She buries into the warmth his body left in the fabric. It smells like hospitals and she tears up again.

“Drowning is an ineffective way to kill yourself, you know.” He observes. 

The laughter is gone, she thinks. The roaring of blood in her ears, the lapping of the sea, the chattering of her teeth, Nagito’s soft voice; they all overpower it. 

“I w-wasn’t t-trying to k-kill myself.” She says.

“No? You really were just swimming, then?”

She doesn’t want to talk about it, but her muscles are like cement and she is not recovered enough to stand just yet. He blinks back at her, passively demanding an answer. 

“I...I don’t remember jumping.”

“You don’t?”

She shakes her head. Her now-short, now-wet hair sticks to her cheek.

“I just...wanted something to break.”

“I see. Did you relapse?”

“No.” She says, understanding that somewhere, she  _ didn’t _ . Not into Despair, anyhow. It was an emotional or mental break, she thinks, from her vantage point of the Ultimate Nurse, but she was painfully aware of it happening. She tried to run from it. That doesn’t sound like what she understands of Despair.

“That’s good then. You probably just had a dark day. I get them too. I imagine most of us do. Going for a quick dip at 2 AM probably isn’t the best way of dealing with it. Nor is avoiding people all day. Ibuki was really worried. It’s wonderful how you two have become friends. That  _ truly _ gives me Hope.” He speaks at a low-register, but each word feels like a poke, like a slap, like a stab.

“Sh-she was worried?”

_ I made Ibuki worried _ , she thinks _ , I made her feel sad and stressed and I had no right to do that. She shouldn’t be feeling bad things because of me. Even when I try and keep my poison away from her, it’s still there. I really am the worst _ .

“Yeah. She tried to see you after breakfast but said you weren’t answering. If Mahiru hadn’t heard you crying, we might have broken down the door to check you weren’t dead. Peko said you probably just needed time to yourself, though, so we let you be.”

She nods, still trembling from the cold.

“I d-did. I didn’t w-want to be a b-burden. There is nothing anyone c-could do, anyway.”

“How do you know that? Your talent?” It reaches her ears as mocking, but he looks earnest. She cannot get a grasp on him.

“I j-just...know…”

“Well, if I hadn’t been here, you might have seriously hurt yourself! Do you feel better?”

“A b-bit...yes…” The revelation comes as a surprise as her headache abates and her panic gives way to drowsiness.

“That’s good! I know it’s tough sometimes, and it’s really easy to get stuck on the idea that you’re a burden, but the wonderful thing about Hope is that it forges bonds between people! We all have to help each other, and because of Hope, we  _ want _ to! And that’s the way to move forward, right?”

She nods, but she isn’t quite sure she understands. She has never understood Nagito. Maybe only Hajime can, and even he struggles.

“Th-thank you, Nagito. For p-pulling me out and f-for your sweater.”

He smiles. It is a pleasant smile. “Anytime!” He says, and she believes him.

\- - - - -

They are  _ ordered _ to help with the party. Not that Ibuki would  _ need _ ordering - she’s been making as much noise as she can on her own with no audience, and now an opportunity to let loose and go wild with her accomplices/classmates is too good an opportunity to pass up. Still, Mahiru and Hiyoko had been  _ firm _ …

“ _ Kaaaaazuichiiiiii!!!!” _

“Jeez, you’re gonna burst my eardrums. Can’t you take it down a decibel?”

“ _ Suuuuuuuure! _ ” She says, quieter, but at an even higher pitch. Kazuichi throws his hands over his ears. 

“Aaahhh! And a frequency, please?”

She rolls her eyes. For someone with such an outlandish appearance, he sure can be a square sometimes.

“ _ Kazuichi _ . I need you expertise, oh wise one.”

“Huh? Why?”

“I need you to fix one of the old amps at the music venue.”

“There are amps? At the music venue?”

“Uh-huh. I’ve found a guitar that works, but for an audience it’ll need an amp! You could knock one together, right?”

“Yeah, sure, probably. But…um...why didn’t you ask before?”

She freezes where she is perched on the table he is eating at. Her legs stop swinging. Her head goes silent.  _ Why didn’t she ask before?  _ It  _ had _ occurred to her; why had she never asked?

“Dunno!” She says, faking brightness. “Anywaaaaay, there are a load of them, but none of them work. There should be enough parts there, my old pal! I really appreciate it!”

He looks at her through narrowed eyes; suspicious. “If I do fix one up, do you promise not to play anymore of that electro-metal you did in the Simulation?”

She laughs at that without thinking whether it is funny or not. “I can’t promise you that! I am the Ultimate Musician after all! How about I give you a lil’ preview, hm? And then if you hate it, you can tell me, and I’ll change it up before the party?”

His mouth goes all wiggly as he presses his lips together over pointed teeth. “Alright.” He says, unsure.

“I aim to please, after all! There  _ must _ have been a reason Hope’s Peak chose me!”

“Well, I’m sure technically, you’re unparalleled, but you can’t learn taste.” He says, and then looks unsure, awkward, as if he hadn’t meant to say it. It is mean, but Ibuki doesn’t mind. Ibuki doesn’t mind at all when her friends are themselves.

She laughs, and it eases his tension.

He has the amp finished by the end of the day. He hands it to her, buckling a little under its weight, and it smells like oil and batteries, and she is  _ so so excited _ she can practically hear the reverb, the booming bass-boosted chords, the crowd screaming.

“Wow! That was quick!”

“Well, I thought I’d prioritise it, as a thank you. For the hair dye, you know?”

They haven’t talked about the hair dye since she gave it to him. She feels a smile pull at her cheeks. 

“You’re the beeeeest Soda pop!”

He mutters under his breath about stupid nicknames, but he’s blushing as he leaves.

  
  
  


\- - - - -

Once she fully comprehends that loud is good and quiet is bad, she seeks out Nekomaru and Akane immediately, bemused that she hasn’t thought of it sooner.

“Then with your left knee raised, you’re gonna twist your hips - like  _ this _ \- and then that gives you momentum, you see? Like a pivot. It’s all just science, in the end. And spirit of course!”

He has one volume setting, unlike her new bombastic amp that she is in love with. His voice is assertive and sure, like it’s coming out of a megaphone, and when he smiles, his grin reaches out to the scars on his face, drawn in parallel lines, one trailing down each cheek from just under his eyes. Sometimes he smiles so broadly she is worried he will tear his face open where those lines are drawn.

Ibuki does as instructed, copying Akane, who moves with enviable ease and a strange sort of effortless grace. And ‘grace’ isn’t a word Ibuki would usually associate with Akane, Ultimate Gymnast or not.

Akane’s muscles are pronounced, her skin sallow, her limbs wiry. She must have put her body under enormous physical stress when she was…

_ When they were _ …

“Like this?!” She asks, windmilling her arms to stop herself from falling on her ass.

“Gahaha! Almost exactly! Straighten your spine! Carry more of your weight over your hips, less in your chest!”

“Easy for you to say when you don’t have boobs! Then again, yours are probably bigger than mine!”

“Focus!” Says Nekomaru, not without amusement. He, at least, hasn’t lost an ounce of his sense of humor. He pushes on her shoulder blades and she does as instructed, straightening up, trying to balance better.

“Now...KICK!” He booms. She propels her raised leg forward with a very dramatic “ _ heeeeyah!” _

She overbalances with the sudden motion and falls headfirst into the sand. Akane and Nekomaru laugh heartily at her.

“Noooo! I have failed you, master! I am not ready for combat, I will disgrace our dojo!” She laments, rolling onto her back and spitting out sand. The narrow cove of Chandler Beach rises up around the edges of her vision. 

“You put a lot of force behind it, that’s good! You just need to work on your balance.” Says Nekomaru, appearing in the upward-facing vista, peering down at her on the ground.

“Yeah! Not bad for a first attempt!” Says Akane, a blur of white teeth as she grins. She offers a hand and helps Ibuki to her feet. 

Ibuki brushes sand and dried seaweed from her hair, pulling a face.

“Don’t encourage me, Akane. One day soon, you’ll be on your back looking up at  _ me _ !”

“Is that a promise?” She says, cheekily. Ibuki doesn’t know if she even caught the innuendo, or if she is just genuinely excited to see if Ibuki can beat her in a fight.

“Of course!”

“Perhaps we should call it a day. We’ve been here for hours, and a good coach knows to never overexert his players!” Nekomaru throws a towel to Ibuki, which she examines with confusion for a moment before deciding the most likely reason he gave it to her is because she is supposed to wipe her face with it, so she does that.

“Nooooo! Not yet! I was just getting the hang of it!” Ibuki cries. The afternoon has gone by in a blur of sweat and concentration and laughter, and she doesn’t want to go back to her quiet room. She has to cut down on how many nights she spends at the music venue, too. She doesn’t want anyone to catch on and think there’s something wrong.

“Are you sure? You haven’t rehydrated, and your body isn’t used to combat training.” He says, folding his arms, raising one powerful eyebrow.

“Yes! Yes, I am one hundred percent sure! Just another half hour,  _ pleeeeease _ ?” She says, in what she thinks is her most adorable and convincing manner, but just makes Nekomaru roll his eyes.

“Fine. I like your determination, Mioda!” He slaps her on the back and she almost topples over again.

“Akane! Back into the first combo! We’re gonna have Ibuki roundhouse kicking in no time!”

They look over to where Akane was, and see just her footprints in the sand, leading to the beach house’s porch. She’s sitting there, cross-legged, with her teeth buried in a mango.

“Where did she...get that from?” Ibuki asks. Nekomaru rolls his eyes.

“AKANE! No eating until training is over!”

She looks up, juice dripping from her lips and staining her white exercise shirt. She has the feral look in her eyes that she usually gets when absorbed in her food.

“Huh?”

“Get over here, athlete!” He shouts,  _ loudly _ , too near Ibuki’s ear, in a tone that leaves no room for argument.

Akane sighs, swallows her last mouthful and bounces over to join them as they reposition.

“RIGHT! FROM THE TOP!” 

It’s late evening when they finish, and Ibuki’s ears are ringing. Her whole body hurts from the exercise, her hair is messy and full of sand, and she has bruises all over her legs. She feels better, though, and with Akane and Nekomaru on either side of her, arguing loudly about protein intake and eating regiments, it's easy to forget the reason she asked to be taught to fight in the first place.

_ No! No point dwelling! As long as you work hard, you’ll be able to look after yourself! And when you can rely on yourself, there’s no need to be afraid, right? _

\- - - - -

The next morning, the Imposter walks into breakfast at their usual time, and Ibuki drops her bread roll.

“Oh...my... _ God!!! _ ” She squeals in delight. An almost identical Ibuki grins back at her, smile wide, eyes screwed shut, knees bending and all - it is an eerily accurate impression.

“How did I do?” Says the Imposter, and they even get the voice right -  _ how did they get the voice right? _

“Amazing! I love it! You’re a much sexier Ibuki than I am!” She says, through delighted giggles. They are wearing the clothes Ibuki left as a not-so-sutble invitation. They are the same weight they normally are, but it’s like it doesn’t even matter. Ibuki herself would believe it, despite the extra pounds.

“How do you feel?” She asks eagerly, bouncing over to them.

“Kind of  _ awesome _ .” They say,  _ perfectly _ , and Ibuki cannot stop grinning.

\- - - - - 

After the day the noise comes, and she disappears, Ibuki doesn’t ask questions. 

When Mikan meets her in the hotel lobby, Ibuki gives her a fast, thorough once-over, locks eyes with her, and grins. She says she is happy to see Mikan, which causes something in the nurse’s head to short-circuit. They walk to breakfast together, Ibuki talking about the party, and the chance of repairing a keyboard she found, and Mikan tries not to cry or faint or scream with gratitude. Her appreciation for the speedy return to ‘normal’ drowns out her self-loathing, for a while.

She’s so forward, so brash, so  _ loud _ , that Mikan had initially worried that she would pry, try to tap into the mess and rot beneath the thin, brittle exterior that Mikan has poorly crafted for herself. But Ibuki doesn’t pry. She encourages, but never invades. It makes becoming her friend easy. 

_ Ha. Like anyone would be friends with you willingly. Like any of them see even a fraction of worth in you compared to what I see. _

But...she  _ is _ her friend. That is undeniable. They grow closer, and now Mikan isn’t tripping over her words every time she goes to answer a question, and when Ibuki, bold and bright, moves boldly and brightly, Mikan doesn’t start or shrink away. If the musician is trying to get Mikan to let her guard down, it is working. If Ibuki is only pretending to like Mikan to sneer about her behind her back, her act is very convincing. If she made friends with Mikan to betray her, Mikan thinks she might deserve it. She even thinks it might be  _ worth _ it.

Hiyoko forgives he r. Or at least, she says what she is capable of, standing in the aisles of Rocketpunch, having cornered Mikan like a cat after a mouse. Despite the shiver that shoots from Mikan's forehead to her toes, Hiyoko keeps her distance and averts her eyes in an unmistakable display of neutrality. 

_ "This doesn’t mean I’m your friend, and it doesn’t fucking mean I forgive you for killing me…buuuut, I get that you weren’t really in control of your actions, and I know full well you wouldn’t do it again, mostly because you’re so weak you couldn’t.” _

It isn't much, but it's  _ something _ . Mikan bursts into tears. Hiyoko rolls her eyes, but sighs like she's dropped something heavy, and leaves without further insult. 

_And_ Mikan's getting a little better at guitar. Her palms sweat and she loses her grip on the neck, and her fingers blister from the strings, but with the new amp, she can  _ feel _ the sound vibrating through her body, shaking each individual vertebrae, thrumming against the malleus and incus of her inner ear.

She would not go into the music venue without the excuse of lessons, however. Facing her past actions, her present nightmares, would be impossible if Ibuki showed any signs of discomfort at the scene of her murder. Maybe she doesn’t remember. Maybe she is pretending, very convincingly, for Mikan’s sake.

_ For Mikan’s sake, for my sake, for your sake - isn’t it exhausting to have everyone tiptoe around you like a landmine? Don’t you wish you could just explode instead of waiting around, knowing it will happen eventually? _

“Are you ok?  _ Hell-oooo _ ? Earth-to-Mikan!”

“Huh! Oh, sorry!”

Ibuki squints. They’re sitting side-by-side on the lip of the stage again. Ibuki is tuning the electric guitar, and frowning at Mikan like she knows she’s caught her in a lie.

“What did I say about apologising for nothing, hm? You haven’t done anything to me.”

“But-”

“You  _ haven’t _ done anything to me.” She says, firmly, with not a trace of her usual flippant light-heartedness.

“Yes...like we talked about.”

“Exactly.”

Mikan bites back another apology, and Ibuki eases, turning her attention back to the instrument. It looks natural in her arms, her sure fingers plucking the strings, her vibrant gaze focused easily on the frets, colors clashing, metal catching the evening light. It is right. Her grip is certain, her understanding impossible to articulate. 

Mikan blushes, and hates herself for it.

“What’s the matter? Something on your mind?” Ibuki asks, noticing her distance.

“N-no. It’s fine. Please, don’t worry about me.”

Ibuki smiles, a little toothy, a little ironic, but genuine and soft. “I can always tell when you’re thinking bad things. The badness shows in your face, you know? Like you’ve opened a black hole in your head and it’s sucking the light from your eyes.”

She feels her breath catch. “Really? You can...s-see that?”

“Uh huh.” Ibuki places the guitar next to her and leans back on her hands. “I get it if you don’t want me to pry, but Naegi said we should try and talk to each other about the bad things, you know? And maybe it will help! I know you like being alone sometimes, but before, when you were gone for a day and didn’t eat and cried all night, that didn’t seem like a good solution. So, even if it’s harder, the alternative  _ has _ to be better, right?”

Her logic follows. Mikan's skin starts to prickle.

“I d-don’t understand...what do you want me to do?”

“Not what  _ I _ want, what  _ you _ want. Do you wanna talk about anything? About what happens when you go inside your own head? Where you went just now?”

Mikan swallows. “It’s just...flashes, usually. F-from before.”

“Before the Simulation…?”

“Y-yes. I think. It comes back to me s-sometimes. Because I had the remembering disease, I th-think. I also remembered it in the Simulation.”

“Of course.” Ibuki nods encouragingly. She doesn’t look cheerful, but doesn’t look solemn either. She looks like she is listening, like she cares. Not many people have cared about Mikan before and when they have -

_ I bet they all think you’re garbage, don’t they? Clumsy, awkward, plain, feeble - that’s what they say, right? Or at least that’s what they think. Well I don’t. I see great potential in you, sweetheart! So much untapped Despair! You’re quite remarkable, you know that? And I think you’re quite pretty… _

“It’s just...how I was before...how  _ w-we _ were before…”

“Ah, I see! You mean when we were Despair? That’s interesting. None of us remember, except you and maybe Hajime, I guess! So, what do you see?”

“It’s...n-not seeing. It’s h-hearing…”

“Hearing?”

“Yeah....”

There’s a moment where she just  _ looks _ . And looks and looks and looks...and Mikan stares at her shoes and trembles.

“Well...Ibuki has very good hearing! Who better to help you with this?”

She looks earnest, and kind.  _ So kind _ . Not a hint of mockery or disdain. The echoes of Junko Enoshima’s voice, clattering around the back of Mikan’s skull, tell Mikan to keep her mouth shut, to _ stop burdening other people with things that she asked for in the first place _ .

Ibuki’s hand is warm over Mikan’s. She realises she is trembling. Ibuki is wearing fingerless gloves, made of black wool. They are a new addition to her outfit; normal gloves with the fingers cut off a little messily. Her smile is closed-lipped and reassuring. Mikan feels the tide, the torrent, the  _ sound _ gushing out of her, and yet it comes out as a pitiful squeak that makes her wince.

“She...she screams in my head. I th-thought it was her all of the time, but sometimes she is just the angry screams, and I’m the pain screams.”

Ibuki nods, disconcertingly serious. The ghost of Despair roars, but she isn’t real, and she cannot stop the words now the surface is ruptured.

“She told me things, back then, that made sense. She told me I w-was right, when I th-thought people hated me, that I was r-right not to trust the others with m-my secrets. She s-said I d-didn’t  _ need _ to worry around her, because sh-she already knew what I was, inside and out. She said she...she-she s-said she... _ l-lo _ ...l-loved me. She said I w-was g-going to h-help her like no one else could. She said I w-was beautiful and c-cute and smart and she could help me and I c-could help everyone else and she g-got so deep -  _ so deep _ \- inside my h-head. She stuck herself there. I could h-hear her even when she wasn’t near m-me. I could h-hear her whispering even when I d-didn’t want to-”

She yelps. Ibuki has taken her hand, her  _ other _ hand. She pulls it away from where she was clawing at her chest. She has rumpled her shirt, left red welts over her breastbone. She is crying, but doesn’t remember when it started.

Ibuki holds her hand lightly, like she’s expecting Mikan to snatch it back, like she’s giving her the option. She looks at the marks Mikan has left on her own skin.

“Did she touch you there?”

Mikan wonders if it’s a tell, or just a really good guess.

“Sh-she t-touched me everywhere.” Junko Enoshima pressed herself into every pore, squeezed herself through every artery, burrowed into Mikan’s gut, molded herself to the inside of her skull. She could hear and feel her in equal measure. She got drunk off it. She chased Junko’s touch, her words, her validation, like it was the only thing that mattered. It was killing her, she knew, but she couldn’t live without it. There was nothing to replace the awful, aching agony of her attention.

“Do you miss her?”

Mikan cannot even look at Ibuki. She swallows; her throat full of sand, and somehow manages to keep speaking.

“I f-feel...bereft. And l-lost. I’m s-sorry…”

She remembers then that Ibuki said no apologising, but she doesn’t rebuke her this time. Ibuki sighs. She is still cradling Mikan’s hand, tracing the lines in her palm and the folds of her knuckles tenderly. It is too much... _ and almost enough _ …

“Feelings of dependency are common in abusive relationships.” Ibuki says, completely unlike Ibuki, like she’s memorised the phrase. Perhaps she has. “It’s normal that something so horrid, that had you so completely for so long, would leave a gap, you know?”

Mikan manages to nod.

“But you wanna get rid of her? The Junko in your head?”

Mikan nods; a forced, jagged movement that makes Ibuki sigh in what sounds like relief.

“Good. That’s Step One. Step Two is figuring out how.”

Mikan says nothing, sees nothing, not even the floor of the music venue, where her eyes are currently fixed, blurring with tears. All she can feel is the crawling over her skin that is so commonplace. The only part of her where it is absent is the hand Ibuki holds.

“Noise works for me. Sounds like a no-brainer, but it’s effective!” Ibuki says.

“F-for you?” Mikan asks.

“Mn. My trauma is more like...muscle memory. I don’t have anything concrete to put it to, but I can’t stand the quiet. To be fair, I never could! But now it’s like, if things are too quiet for too long, something awful is gonna happen. I’m gonna remember what I’ve done, or snap back into that way of thinking. So, I come here. I play music. I shout! I talk to my friends. I come and hang with you.”

Through her tears and quaking breath, Mikan manages a smile.

“Sh-she is quiet when I am with you.” She says, shocked at her own courage, so far past her own boundaries that she feels dizzy with the freedom of it.

There is a moment of quiet before she starts at Ibuki’s light touch on her jaw. She turns her head towards her, as she guesses she wants her to. Ibuki’s face is brave, firm, unflinching, and close.

“It is because I care about you, and she didn’t. I won’t take anything from you. I promise. I only want the bits of you that you would like to share. I want you to trust me because you feel you can, not because I ask you to. I want to help you because I like you, not because I need you. She shuts up when I’m here, because I’m not her. Because your  _ friends _ aren’t like her.”

It is a convincing argument, glimmering on a distant horizon like the sun over the ocean, like Hope rising from Despair, like the near-constant flicker of mischief in Ibuki’s eyes.

“It’ll be awful, I know. And I doubt you’re used to being on the receiving end, but please, Mikan, will you let me help you?”

Ibuki’s hand is still on her cheek, and her skin hums pleasantly now. The timid hope in her chest that is so constantly battered down by reality calls out for  _ more _ . If she is to be betrayed again, it might be worth it for this new sense of  _ safety _ . She wants Ibuki to help her. She wants to help Ibuki. She would choose her music over Junko’s voice any day.

She cannot manage a verbal confirmation, but she  _ does _ manage a nod. The smile that blossoms on Ibuki’s face nearly blinds her. She hiccups around the end of her sobs. Ibuki’s thumbs brush away the last of her tears.

“Awesome.” She says quietly, pressing her forehead against Mikan’s. “ _ Awesome _ . We’re gonna get better, I promise. I’ll make sure you’re never scared, or stuck, or lost listening to  _ her _ again.”

They are too-big promises; she is scared a lot of the time, stuck in her memories a lot of the time, and Junko is so often  _ there _ . But she believes that Ibuki will try, and that is more than enough, more than she expected, probably more than she deserves.

“Th-thank you, Ibuki. I w-would like to help you t-too, if that’s ok?”

Ibuki grins toothily. “Of course! Who better than the Ultimate Nurse, hm?”

She presses a kiss to Mikan’s nose, and there is a tremor of terror, residue of the last person’s lips upon her face, a flash of too-close, too-tight, too-hard memory, but then it is gone, and her eyes feel clear, and inside her head is peaceful. Ibuki is not Junko. She could  _ never _ mistake Ibuki for Junko, and she has just overwritten the mark Junko left, touched Mikan anew, replaced the poison with medicine.

The idea is so potent that Mikan surprises herself by tilting her chin up, kissing Ibuki on the corner of her mouth. She hears her small gasp; Ibuki is not often rendered speechless. Her lips sing with the new, clean, compassionate contact. She does it again, and Ibuki sighs a little, lets her eyes flutter shut, traces Mikan’s cheekbone with her fingertips.

They stay there for a while, like that, with their eyes closed, tentatively holding each other, lips meeting and parting and meeting again. It is quiet, but not oppressive quiet, and thoughts buzz around Mikan’s head loud enough to fill silence. Ibuki’s lips are soft, her touch surprisingly gentle for one so vivacious, like she’s holding something delicate. When her teeth brush Mikan’s lip, they are a little pointy, and it tickles. It’s like floating on the surface of something deeper, never probing too far, never committing too completely, and simply letting the tide take them...elsewhere.

\- - - - -

“And then I’ll strum a D, like  _ this _ , and go ‘AHHHHH’! And then the flames can start, on either side of the stage,  _ here _ and  _ here _ , and then the confetti cannons, and then I’ll do a kneeslide and maybe even a  _ crowd dive _ and then Hiyoko can jump into the splits and you can blow up the Monokuma doll and it’ll be the greatest moment in entertainment history!”

Ibuki is out of breath when she stops talking. Kazuichi squints at her. Mikan looks worried.

“I told you, they said no pyrotechnics.” Says Kazuichi.

Ibuki scoffs. “But you’re the  _ Ultimate Mechanic _ ! It’d just be a waste if you don’t get to flex your muscles...so to speak.” She adds, after he looks suddenly smug.

“Th-that sounds t-too dangerous,” Mikan offers, “Th-there won’t be enough p-people to crowd s-surf, Ibuki.”

“Sounds like a  _ challenge _ , Miss Tsumiki!”

“You already sprained your ankle in rehearsals!”

Ibuki throws her arm around Mikan’s shoulders and nuzzles into her hair. Mikan gives a delighted squeak of surprise.

“Worried sick about me, huh? I’m suuuuper sorry about my ankle, by the way. Totally unnecessary. Won’t happen again! I am determined to not overwork you!”

“It’s n-not that! I just d-don’t want you to hurt yourself!”

“Aww!” She kisses Mikan’s blushing cheek and Kazuichi pretends to retch.

“Can you guys do this another time? I told you, I’m not allowed to set stuff on fire. That means we can’t even blow up Monokuma.”

The life size replica of the Despair Headmaster lies face down by the newly-constructed stage, where it has been left. It looks a little sad, listing into the sand. Ibuki has the unnerving urge to sit it upright.

“Oh man, that sucks! It’s like they don’t even  _ want _ us to celebrate our triumph over Despair!”

“Well, perhaps it’s for the best...maybe it’s kinda...I don’t know, in bad taste? Like, Mahiru and Nagito relapse sometimes, and Teruteru got super freaked when Nekomaru mentioned the deep fat fryer at breakfast the other day. Maybe we should try not to, you know, trigger any unpleasant memories?”

“ _ Ah _ , maybe you’re right! I just thought it might be funny.” Ibuki says.

Mikan is eyeing the plushie with suspicion. Ibuki squeezes her shoulders tighter.

“Ok,  _ fine _ , we’ll skip the pyro. Doesn’t make a whole lotta sense considering the  _ fireworks _ , but whatever. So, is everything ready then?”

Kazuichi nods. His hair is vibrant today; he must have touched up the colour last night. He doesn’t have his green overalls, so he’s rolled up the bottom of the standard-issue grey pants and tucked in a bright Hawaiin shirt that he found in Rocketpunch. It’s too big for him too, he’s wiry now, and taller than he was in the Simulation, but he’s chopped the sleeves off jaggedly and there is a wrench in the breast pocket and Ibuki thinks he looks really cool in it.

“Yep. Sound check done too. We’re all ready, if you wanna go change or something. Be back here for, like, six? I think that’s when they’re serving food.”

“Will do! C’mon, Mikan, I’ve been trying my hand at tailoring and there’s this adorable little shirt I found and altered that would look so so cute on you!” 

Mikan blushes when Ibuki takes her hand to drag her to her cottage, but when she turns to leave, she sees Kazuichi watching Nekomaru and Akane across the beach. They’ve almost finished the stage, but instead of installing the final planks, they’ve evidently decided to take a break for  _ yet more _ wrestling. Kazuichi’s shoulders droop a little.

“You too, Souda!” She calls brightly, before she can think twice about it.

“Huh?” He asks, turning back to face the two girls.

“You coming? I’ve been dyeing and chopping all sorts of clothes; there might be something you like! And maybe if I’m feeling extra nice, I’ll do your eyeliner!”

He looks bemused, and then bashful, and then just opens and closes his mouth a few times. He tugs at his shirt, and looks out to sea, chewing on his lip.

_ That’s gotta hurt, with those teeth! _

“Oh...sure. Thanks. But don’t get me wrong,  _ you’ll _ have to ask  _ me _ nicely to do my eyeliner.” He mumbles, but smirks a little as he follows them off the beach.

\- - - - -

In the end, she manages to wrangle Kazuichi into all of the new cloth creations she wants, including a skater skirt she has fashioned from some sort of school uniform. He whines and laments, but she tells him he looks punk in it, and that cheers him up. After she applies his eyeliner, which he lets her do very easily on the understanding that she refers to it as ‘guyliner’, he preens in front of her mirror as she draws little glitter stars on Mikan’s cheek in gel pen. He takes his grey beanie off and pushes his hair up, holding it in an exaggerated quiff contemplatively, narrowing his eyes and tilting his jaw.

“Thinking about a new look?”

“Just wondering what it would look like different.” He says distractedly.

“You going for Tanaka chic?”

“Huh?!” He drops his hair at once and smooths it back into its usual place. “Nu-uh! No way! I have much better style than that weirdo!” He insists, and then, after a few moments of silence. “Do you think Miss Sonia would notice me more if I dyed it black? What does she even see in that guy, anyway?”

“Gundham’s handsome! I think his style is cool!” Ibuki says joyfully, losing the thread of conversation a little as she applies lip balm to Mikan’s lips, for want of gloss. She thinks kissing it off now would be both counterproductive and embarrassing for the other two people present, so she doesn’t. Mikan’s blushing, though, so perhaps she was thinking along the same lines…

And now Ibuki is just holding her face and staring at her mouth, lip balm held uselessly in mid air.

“.... _ wayyy _ outdated - no one’s  _ emo _ anymore. And it’s just because he’s tall, I bet. It’s not like he’s built like Nekomaru. And he’s got no  _ colour _ or anything, and his eyebrows are weird, and he’s always  _ frowning _ , I don’t get it…” Kazuichi continues, tugging at his own hair and still looking in the mirror.

Ibuki snaps out of it. “I think you’re handsome too, Kazuichi! You can both be handsome, it isn’t a contest.”

This pacifies him somewhat, and he tugs on the tie-dye vest he has settled for. “If it was, I’d win.” He mutters under his breath.

Mikan watches the interaction, and her lips quirk in a happy little smile, and Ibuki could  _ melt _ at the sight of it, so rare and precious, like she’s forgiven herself for the moment, or at least just forgotten.

“If it means that much to you, we can put it to a majority vote tonight. You’re wearing as much eyeliner as he usually does!” Ibuki says, and Kazuichi fumes. “Let’s hurry up and get going! I’m so excited I’m gonna pee!”

\- - - - -

Swelling, hammering, thunderous bass rattles the assembled crowd’s teeth inside their skulls. The huge noise, bursting from the small, makeshift stage, to a crowd of fourteen classmates and a few hospital staff, on an otherwise deserted beach, is almost comically absurd. 

Ibuki knows she is pitch-perfect, easily in rhythm, and striking the right chords, which is good because she can hear nothing over the beating of her heart, the rushing in her veins, the pounding in her head. Music is to be  _ felt _ as much as it is to be heard, and she can almost  _ see _ the sound,  _ taste _ it. It fills her lungs, fizzing in the pit of her stomach, rushing to the ends of her fingers, fortifying her heart. People are dancing, and she can see rows of teeth where her friends are smiling, or laughing, or cheering. It is a small audience, and a humble venue, especially compared to her past performances, but with the sunset lighting her as no desk ever could, with the promise of stars in the clear sky, with the waves behind acting as a pulse beat, it feels like she is screaming out the poison, and letting in the cure.

It is noise, beautiful and discordant, and her friends rejoice in it, need the noise as much as she does, screaming sounds back at each other over the strivent strumming of her electric guitar.

And when it is done, she sighs like she can finally breathe, like she has learnt how to swim, and her friends  _ cheer _ for her. Even Hiyoko looks happy. Mikan claps in the front row, her hands pulled in close to her chest, her face glittery where Ibuki decorated it, beaming and blushing. Ibuki’s ears ring and ring.

As they eat, Teruteru makes a comment about her being good with her fingers, and Mikan nearly chokes on her kebab. Ibuki’s irritation is washed away by the fact that Teruteru is getting some of his spark back, and, drunk on her own power after her performance, throws her arm around his neck affectionately and rubs his head until he shrieks.

“Thank you, Ibuki! That was wonderful!” Says Mahiru. Hiyoko hangs off her elbow. She sends Mikan a frosty glare, but says nothing. Definitely an improvement.

“Yeah, you learnt how to make music we can actually listen to without vomiting!” She says to Ibuki, full of false friendliness. Or perhaps it is genuine friendliness. 

“The pleasure is all mine, beloved audience! It is you guys, the fans, that make this whoooole thing possible!” She says, bold and playful, winking at Hiyoko’s eyeroll.

Peko and Fuyuhiko go to light the fireworks. The space between them, though the normal size, doesn’t look right all of a sudden. Once the fuse is lit, they all assemble on the beach to wait for it to start. 

“Why are you wet, Kazuichi?” Ibuki asks.

He’s grumbling to himself, wiping his smudged eyeliner, wringing the water out of his beanie. “Fell in the sea trying to take the stage lights down before the tide came in.” She cannot help the laughter that bubbles from her chest, from that warm, noisy place that’s there all of a sudden, and when he sees he’s not being mocked, he joins in with a roll of his eyes. 

“Figures.” He says sardonically.

As they wait, she notices Mikan is shivering.

“You cold, Mikan?” 

Her eyes are big, looking up at the sky in anticipation.

“N-no, I’m f-fine.”

Ibuki won’t pry. Mikan’s become a lot better at telling her when something is wrong now, so she’ll trust her with this one.

“Would you like me to keep you warm, then?”

Mikan earnestly examines her for something malicious, the hallmarks of a tease, a trick, but clearly finds none, and nods. Ibuki slips behind her and wraps her arms around the nurse’s narrow frame. She rests her chin on Mikan’s shoulder, nuzzling into her short hair until she feels her relax.

“This ok?”

“Mn.” Mikan confirms. “It’s n-nice.” Her hands flutter to cover Ibuki’s where they rest on Mikan’s stomach.

The fireworks start, and they are loud too. Teruteru is whooping from his position on Nekomaru’s shoulders. Akane’s eyes are like satellite dishes as she stares in awe at the bright colors. An unstoppable smile blossoms on Sonia’s face as she stands under the string lights and bunting she made. Gundham glances at her with grim resolve, like he can't help it, and then glances back at the sky, as if the fireworks are less bright.

“How do you feel?” Ibuki asks, uncharacteristically quietly.

Mikan pauses. She listens.

“B-better.”

Mikan’s head is like a cathedral sometimes, where every little noise sounds huge and holy, echoing through impossible antechambers only to be swallowed by the vaulted ceiling. Ibuki has elbowed her way through the stained glass windows, and the sun shines through, less complicated, less suffocating, bringing with it fresh air and a quiet breeze. 

Mikan hopes that her shyness, her awkwardness, her tendency to be quiet rather than loud, hasn’t hindered Ibuki in her quest for noise. She hopes that she can give the girl even a fraction of the new life she has given Mikan. She cannot yet forgive herself for trying to take something so extraordinary from the world, but  _ Ibuki _ has forgiven her, and so maybe that is enough for now.

Mikan’s quiet breathing is a bassline in Ibuki’s head. Fireworks boom above, and her friends make a choir out of exclamations of joy. It is  _ so  _ much better than a chorus of screams. 

_ Harmony _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a day early because I'm going away so you probably won't get Gundham and Sonia until September. Sorry, it is beyond my control. I will post as soon as I can, though - it IS finished and it IS my favorite chapter, so hang tight!


	6. Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, some Sondam for the heart. Thank you for waiting for this one. These two are probably my favorite pair and it was a pleasure to write. I hope you’ve enjoyed this story - I might write more DR fic in the future since people have been so positive about this one.

_“I fear for my country. What will become of Novoselic if I die in here?”_

_“You must not cower in the face of adversity, it is most unfitting of a creature of your standing. In order to claim your title, you must push through the calamity and discover salvation on the other side.”_

_“You are right, of course. However, I am weak. I am...hungry. I am selfish.”_

_“Weakness can only be thwarted first by acquiescence. You have made fast progress in accepting your fear. As for hunger…I cannot assist there.”_

_“I know. I am sorry, I cannot think about anything else; only my country and my stomach. Must it end like this?”_

_“P-perhaps…if-”_

_“…Yes? Have you thought of something?”_

_“Well, truly only one as malevolent as I would have considered such an action. However, I fear I too am weak. Perhaps it is the hunger draining my astral level. I feel cowardice turning my wicked blood cold.”_

_“G-Gundham I don’t understand.”_

_“It is nothing, dark one. An evil thought entered my head, but the rules of this malicious game would not allow such an outcome without terrible sacrifice.”_

_“You don’t mean…?”_

_“Murder must not be considered. It is of course, unthinkable that a mere human such as you, even at your above average power level, would be able to master the art of homicide in such conditions. However, I must say, if you were to find it in you to kill, you must…”_

_“…I must what?”_

_“You must vanquish me, instead of someone else.”_

_“What?!”_

_“I would be an easier target, considering you have achieved a base understanding of me, and would perhaps be able to predict my actions. However, I fear it would do no good. Taking into account the progression of events so far, it would merely lead to us both entering Hell early.”_

_“But…then everyone else would survive, right? They’d get out?”_

_“Hmph, yes. That is true…It is not worth considering! As the deceptively-wise Hinata proclaimed, it is perhaps better to preserve our souls and forge an eternal bond in the despair of starvation, than to take another’s life in a futile attempt at escape.”_

_“That’s right. I would never kill. Even if it means I leave my country without an heir, I could never live with myself, or respect myself as Queen, if I were to resort to such terrible measures.”_

_“As expected, she-cat.”_

_“And…especially you. Even if I knew you offered your life willingly, if it was the best way out, I could still not do it. I could never kill you. You are a great friend, Gundham.”_

_“I – well, yes...I would never offer my life, it is much too valuable! Let us put aside such foolish thoughts!”_

_“Of course, whatever you say.”_

_They sat side by side on the bed of Sonia’s deluxe room. It was getting late, but the lack of sunlight was playing with Sonia’s perception of the length of days. Gundham hid his mouth in his scarf; a sure sign of vulnerability. Sonia itched with the desire to touch him, an itch that had been pestering her for days now. She shifted slightly to move her hand closer to his, where it rested on the covers. He twitched, and immediately stood, pulling his heavy coat closer around himself. She saw a flash of gold, brown and white fur as his Devas scurried up his arms and settled on his shoulders._

_“Goodnight, Sonia. I wish you a safe rest, and I shall see you tomorrow morning, I suppose.”_

_“Of course. Thank you, Gundham, for comforting me. I really needed it.”_

_When she found the remains of Nekomaru’s body, she could think of nothing but overwhelming sadness and bittersweet relief. Throughout the class trial, she didn’t consider for a second that it was Gundham’s doing. And then he openly admitted it, and it all suddenly made sense. She thought she could see into his soul at that moment, and she was blinded by its surprising light._

_When Monokuma dragged him from her, the itch became an unrelenting agony._

_They never touched. Not even once._

\- - - - - 

_We must be brave now._

Sonia Nevermind sits on her hands and waits.

_We must be strong enough to know what to let go of, and what to cling on to._

She fidgets and frets, she chews her nails, she lets her mind wander and her eyes go glassy.

_We must understand that some things have to be addressed to be overcome, but some things must be released and forgotten._

She prays. She was never religious, but her upbringing must have left the instinct in her. She sits and twitches and thinks and prays.

_We must acknowledge the value of patience, of gratitude, of determination. Life is not to be discarded, instead it must be fought for._

She waits for what seems like years. She feels like, in a certain way, her whole life has been waiting; waiting to grow up, waiting to be crowned, waiting to run away, waiting for the inevitable fall.

_We must master our fear, although we are new. We must be unstoppable, although we are small. We must be hopeful, although we are terrified._

_I must be brave, now, and so I shall be_.

\- - - - -

“Tanaka, you haven’t eaten anything today. Please take this from me.”

Gundham grunts noncommittally and averts his eyes to the hospital window.

“Please. You are being very stubborn, and for what reason? You must eat something or you will never regain your strength.”

The Simulation has not been kind to his real body. His face is more drawn and gaunt. His white and black hair falls over his eyes, unkempt and long and a disconcerting opposite to his usual immaculate style. The tattoo across his eye has been redone, with an actual blade by the looks of it, and has left a real scar over the top of the original. The worst change is his eyes. Despite his darkness and diabolical claims, he had always shown his full force of personality in his expressive gaze. Now it is hollow. Now, despite being voted the blackened and staring death in the face without wavering, his gaze is defeated.

“Why must you pester me with this? What purpose would it serve? I would merely be engaging with this fabrication, providing sustenance for a cursed body which, ultimately, is a mere illusion.”

That’s another thing that Sonia is worried about. He has been out almost a week and yet refuses to believe that the waking world is real. He stares, forlorn, as if he has given up and yet tenses and flinches at every noise, as if anything might cause him to ‘wake up’ and be dragged back down into the darkness. He moves, heartbreakingly, to touch little furry bodies that are no longer there.

“This is no illusion, I assure you. It is reality, and you are alive again. You have been through much, and for the sake of your health you must recover.”

In the Simulation, he was always easy to read. Despite attempts at hiding his emotions, Sonia could tell when he was flustered, or lonely, or irritated, or insecure. Now, however, it is a lot more difficult. Now, there is usually very little showing on his face.

“Gundham, _please_ – “ Without thinking, she reaches forward to his bandaged arm. He suddenly jolts back to the present and swipes it away before she can touch him.

“You fiend, have I not warned you – “

She must be tender, yes, but she must also be bold.

“Tanaka. You will stop this foolishness at once. You will eat something before I tell the nurses and we force you to. For the sake of your friends, I will not watch you waste away. I will hear no more on the subject.”

Her tone specifically reversed for royal commands is less easy to access these days, after being so far from her home country for so long, but she summons it from somewhere. 

Gundham looks slightly taken aback at the sudden outburst. His dark eyes scan her rigid expression. There is no moving her. He swallows and glowers some more, before muttering something that sounds like ‘fine’ under his breath and taking the soup from her.

They do this dance for several days, and although it is strenuous, watching him slowly come round to the new world, watching his resolve to be stubborn slowly weaken, is reward enough. Despite how difficult he is, and how much time she spends idly arguing with words she knows he has chosen to hide his true feelings, she is utterly elated. She starts sleeping again, she eats properly at his side because she must set an example, and, in extolling Hope to make up for his moods, she feels it settle inside her in a very real way.

He may be even more of a hassle than he was in the Simulation, but she doesn’t even attempt to hide her tender thoughts, her glowing affection, her absolute weakness for this fascinating lunatic. She hangs on his every word and plays to his every whim. She itches and itches to do what she has always done in the past when she was sweet on someone, but she knows his hatred for contact, and so she keeps her hands to herself, not wishing him to misconstrue a friendly touch as an attack.

_He’ll get better. He is getting better. We will recover, and survive this._

\- - - - -

Sonia knows the struggle all too well.

She doesn’t see fifteen high school students attempting to become themselves again. She sees a nation, a civilisation, attempting to claw its way back into the light, having fallen further than anyone thought possible.

She sees Hajime’s distance. She notices him more than she notices a lot of the others. He goes dull, like he isn’t aware of where he is or _who_ he is, and then he turns to seek guidance from someone who isn’t there, someone they all _know_ isn’t there yet are unwilling to bring up, and his shoulders slump and his expression hollows even further and she wishes she could express how proud she is of him, how much she values him, how grateful she is for his steadfastness…

But she struggles to show any of this. She’s lost her ‘royal touch’ somewhat. She’s exactly what she said she always wanted to be; a normal high school girl, trying to find her place in the world…

Only she may or may not have brought about the end of her country, the end of the world, and now she may or may not be trying to live a vaguely normal life, probed constantly by the guilt of the apocalypse and struggling with the trauma of events she didn’t _actually_ experience but her brain is pretty damn sure she did.

She misses Novoselic. She misses its water. As a lowland country, it was interwoven with rivers and brooks, streams and springs, bubbling up and spilling over the landscape, like veins of a living creature. She misses the people, she misses the polite and yet rustic nature of the culture she was raised in. She misses the duties she performed that she knew affected those she ruled over. She misses the classes she attended that taught her how she must be a queen. She misses the courtiers and the chambermaids and the guards and the messengers and the gardeners and the cooks. She misses her parents, her friends, her extended family and her bedroom. She misses her country, which became so much a part of her that she qualified as an Ultimate as a direct result.

She misses home, but the memories of it are hazy. 

She misses home, but this is home now.

The itch, the _ache_ , the agony of being unable to go home, of having no idea what has happened to home and what she may have done to it under Junko’s influence, is very difficult to ignore, but Sonia is nothing if not pragmatic. She will power through and live in the present. She will refuse to abandon hope for Novoselic, but she will pay full attention to what is immediately in front of her, because that is what a leader does. That is what the Ultimate Princess must do.

And that means making sure everyone is ok.

She spends an afternoon with the Imposter. They present as Mitarai, a student at Hope’s Peak, and Sonia sits on the pier with them, swinging her legs, as they proceed to demolish a popsicle. They’re closed off and less keen to take charge these days (perhaps a Mitarai trait?) but perfectly pleasant. It’s a jarring difference from the ‘Byakuya’ she used to know, but not unwelcome, and she makes sure they know that if anything is wrong, her door is always open.

She tries to talk to Mikan, but she is pretty unintelligible, muttering little else other than apologies and self-deprecating remarks. She leaves her with Ibuki and berates herself for her own shortcomings.

She had considered talking to Nagito when he woke up, but he was immediately whisked away for urgent medical attention, and Hajime had given her a subtle shake of the head from the doorway. She would never admit it, but she is relieved that the burden of rehabilitating him didn’t fall to her. Even now, as they all navigate the world they’ve woken up in, past-less and untethered, she knows she will need to be extra careful with Nagito. 

Nekomaru is a delight to spend time with. She is stunned by how well he is adapting; he is back to his usual training regiment, and is enforcing it on some of the other students who need some structure. He slaps her across the shoulder blades and congratulates her on her strength of character, and although there are bags under his eyes from where he clearly isn’t sleeping well, and those scars on his cheeks, she has no doubt that his remarkable ability to see the good in everyone, but also what needs to be improved, will get him through this.

With a certain amount of reluctance, she speaks to Kazuichi. She notices his looks, and their intensity hasn’t lessened, although now they are sad and filled with longing rather than lust. He is an infinitely lonely boy, and they survived the worst horrors imaginable together, and she’ll be damned if immaturity and a schoolboy crush gets between them after everything.

He is nervous and useless for much of the interaction, but it is progress. He looks her in the eye at one point, and she feels pity stir in her chest. He is free falling out of his own body, desperate to land somewhere soft, and she cannot give him what he wants, but if he only learnt to be her friend she would give him everything he needs. 

When they part ways, she is happy that the conversation was normal and friendly, but he’s still blushing, and she’s worried that perhaps she made his whole day.

\- - - - - 

Gundham believes the worst thing about the silence is that it is oppressive and yet always there. He is surprised that his habit of seeking quiet has not gone, even when it is so difficult to bear.

Silence used to bring solace, a second to collect his thoughts and tend to his empire. He used to spend hours, _days_ , away from everyone and their noise and their mess and their _touching_ and focus on his animals and his plan of domination.

_Promises unspoken because they are too delicate to be raised or the silence is too valuable to be broken…_

There would never be complete silence. He would have his Devas, his faithful minions, his closest companions, to rattle the wheels in their enclosure or nibble seeds near his ear. Perhaps that is why the silence is so awful now; it has never been closer and more absolute.

He wonders what he did to them. He remembers putting them to one side, leaving them behind, because he wanted them to live on without him if he must die, and yet here he is alive, and the roles are reversed. He knows he would never harm a defenceless animal, but _that_ wasn’t him, was it? Who knows what she made him do when he was under her curse?

He wonders if knowing his demon companions’ fates would be worse than remaining ignorant.

There is a knock at his door. It is either Sonia or Hajime, he knows. He shrinks back into the shadows. He leaves the lights off and sits on his bed with his back against the wall. At least this way he can be alone and in darkness while covering all exits and entrances.

“Gundham?”

Sonia today. He doesn’t want to see her, so he keeps quiet.

“Gundham, I’m coming in.”

 _Ha, I wish you luck, fiend_ …

She swings the door open easily.

“You forgot to lock it again. You are getting lax with your safety.”

It was genuinely an accident, as far as he knows, but he is irate at his lack of forethought nonetheless.

“A miscalculation on my part. I must have forgotten that I have left this place since last night.”

She puts her hands on her hips. She, like all of them, looks older than the teenager she thought she was in the Simulation. She rarely wears her hair down these days and has taken to wearing overalls, boots and fingerless gloves when she feels like being practical, he has noticed. She’s in a dress today. It appears they are all scrabbling to assemble a vague external image of who they used to be.

“You look a lot better, I can tell you’re eating.”

He is eating. Even when his appetite deserts him, even when the sight of others eating meat and eggs and fish turns his stomach and makes his throat close up, he eats. If he is to die (again?), he refuses to allow it to be on account of something as puny as lack of sustenance.

“Would you like to take a walk with me?”

“A foolish request. There is much I must do that is of far greater importance than leisure.”

He sits firmly back into his usual haughty persona. He hugs his arms around his chest in a manner he hopes looks more steadfast than defensive.

Even in the gloominess of his cabin, he can see the shoulders of her silhouette deflate.

“Oh, of course. Ok, maybe some other time then.”

_This mortal shows you more kindness than you could possibly deserve, and you lie to get her to leave so you can wallow in self-pity?_

“Hold on…” he says before he can think about it.

She stops in the doorway and looks back at him.

“I shall accompany you. I have changed my mind.”

That perks her up. He is furious that a single, curt acceptance can make her so happy.

“Wonderful!”

\- - - - -

_His mother had caught him one day, drawing a lopsided circle in blackboard chalk on the pavement outside their apartment._

_“Gundham! What did I tell you about playing in the street? You might hurt yourself!”_

_He remembers her gentleness, her weak, tired smile, the way she’d push his hair back, smoothing it up out of his eyes._

_“I just wanted to try.”_

_“I know, but he’s gone now. He is somewhere better.”_

_Gundham looked down at the field mouse. He’d found it in the school gym and carried it around with him for weeks, feeding it and fostering a bond with it. When he’d found it dead that morning, he’d locked himself in the bathroom so his mother wouldn’t know that he’d been crying._

_Its little body lay limply in the middle of his summoning circle. He wasn’t allowed fire, so he’d coloured some paper in black in the hope that the demonic spirits would mistake it for charring._

_“Everything dies, little one. You did everything you could, but that’s the problem with pets; they die, and we have to say goodbye.”_

_“…Always?”_

_“Yes. Always. Nothing lasts forever, but you made his life lovely, and that’s what matters.”_

_He looked at the small shape; delicate and precious and weak and insignificant. He remembered him warm against the crook of his neck, the noises he made when he ate. He blinked back tears furiously._

_No, never, not in front of her._

_His mother’s arms were thin around him but her touch was firm and sure as she guided him back inside, away from the tiny corpse._

\- - - - -

Even though it is unbearably humid, she never sees him without his scarf.

They walk side by side, as they have taken to doing, around the first island. He is alert and tense, as usual, with his mouth pressed into the folds of fabric looped around his neck. She wonders if it is the scarf he wore as a high school student, or just a convincing replacement. His hair has been cut, but he does not style it as he used to, and instead lets it fall loosely over his brow. He has also acquired another long black coat. His eyes dart around, but he isn’t scared; he’s looking for animals, as usual.

“Aren’t you hot, Gundham?”

Breaking the silence catches his attention and he glances at her questioningly.

“The weather is very warm here, yet you are wearing so many layers.” She notes his coat, the open shirt beneath it, and the black t-shirt underneath that.

“My blood runs at an appropriately low level for my power status. Temperature bothers me not. This form is merely a vessel for the unfettered evil within.”

She smiles. “Ok, as long as it isn’t bothering you. We’ve all adapted, I just think it might be bad for your health.”

“T-thank you for your concern, however it is superfluous.”

He’s trying, _really_ trying, she can tell. He was gruff and rude with her for the first few weeks, well, with everyone really. He was closed off and detached, but something began to gradually warm, and she suspects it’s the belief that he isn’t going to wake up to find himself suddenly in hell again.

“Come with me! I want to show you something.” She tugs at his coat sleeve, carefully avoiding skin contact. He flinches a little but lets her steer him towards the beach.

She scrambles over jagged rocks until she is peering down into the pools hidden along the shore. He has halted on the sand to look at her questioningly.

“What has led you to stray from our path?”

“Come over here and see!”

He looks reluctant. He wraps his coat around himself even more tightly, despite the heat. She has scoped out this area specially and wants to inject even a glimmer of excitement into him.

“Come on, Gundham, don’t you trust me?”

She expects him to answer no, but instead he just looks a little shocked, blushes and stammers out “Hmph…o-of course.”

“Then come and see!” She points into the rockpool and curiosity gets the better of Gundham. Being careful to avoid slipping, he makes his way unsteadily over to her. The sea breeze whips his hair into his eyes. He looks rough, but no longer unhealthy, and Sonia catches herself thinking this new, more rugged and weather-beaten appearance is a good look on Gundham.

His hard expression melts into something soft like wonder as he peers into the water. He bends down to look at the little pocket of life. She remembers what he thinks of insects, and wonders if fish are also ‘unworthy’ of his power, but he seems to almost forget she is there as he leans in closer to observe the minnows darting back and forth, the slow pulsing of sea urchins, the quick wriggling of small, translucent shrimp.

When he dips his unbandaged hand in and scoops out a tiny hermit crab, she sees his brow soften for the first time since they woke up, and the relief is so strong she might cry in sympathy.

“Perhaps this world has not been claimed by Armageddon just yet…” he murmurs. He observes the crab with intense interest as it scutters across his fingers. She realises he probably hasn’t held another living thing since he woke up.

“Of course not. Life clings to life. Maybe we should take time to look a little more closely!” Her voice is chipper as she bends down to watch the crab with him.

He presents his finger to the crab, and it pinches him with a small, sharp claw. He doesn’t flinch, rather watches closer.

“There must be more. We could find other creatures, surely! We should go around the islands and see if there are any rodents or birds for you to study. Cooking is how Hanamura keeps himself happy, and Kazuichi has been tinkering with things since he rolled out of his pod. Indulging in our talents might help!”

He raises his eyes to observe her. They are not brooding or stormy, but clear and comprehending, like they would be when it was just the two of them spending time together in the Simulation. She feels a little struck all of a sudden. 

“…Perhaps…yes, indeed! There must be other servants of hell on this rock, and it is my duty to seek them out!”

She smiles. “I could come too…if you’d like, that is…”

“Hm. Well, yes. You clearly have strong astral perception when it comes to reading the auras of animals. These dark powers must be put to use! We shall accompany one another, then!”

They stick to their word, and every day go out looking for signs of life. Sonia is reminded that while someone like Akane or Hiyoko would turn to their talent for money or a distraction, Gundham’s talent is his whole life. It is only natural to see him creep steadily out from the shadowy confines of his cottage as soon as he knows there are nests of parakeets in the remains of Nezumi Castle, or turtles off Chandler beach, or possums behind Rocketpunch Market. After a week of hunting around, his signature laugh is ringing through the restaurant at breakfast along with most of his classmates’.

It is slow but steady progress. His gestures become gradually more flamboyant, his manner of speaking more archaic and ridiculous, his social skills as clunky as ever but at least he is actually talking to the others, and Sonia squeezes more and more conversation out of him with every outing. When examining a burrow behind the music venue, he even refers to his execution, albeit tersely. She has noticed that he is, tragically, getting used to not having his hamsters living in his scarf; he has stopped reaching to his shoulder to pet something that is no longer there. On one occasion, when talking about how facing starvation has pretty much prepared them for everything, he excuses himself from their snake hunt early, stating that he must meet ‘the boisterous one’ on important business.

_Yes. Progress._

And she can feel it changing her for the better as well. Having a focus, a responsibility, makes her feel more like herself, and watching Gundham creep out of the darkness to blink hesitantly in this new dawn is more rewarding than any royal duty she can remember performing.

\- - - - -

“So, you want forgiveness to assuage your own guilty conscience?”

Nekomaru’s huge figure looms over Gundham. He stands with his massive arms crossed over his barrel chest. The wind whips Gundham’s scarf out behind him.

He remembers straining, every muscle screaming, his blood roaring in his ears and fear gripping a heart he had called dead as he wrestled Nekomaru’s metal body into a suitable position to tie up with the wire. He remembers tasting blood. He remembers fumbling with the clock in his chest, his moist palms making getting a grip difficult. He remembers how his ‘skin’ was cold, his body unbearably heavy, the smell of oil and sweet tea, his Devas of Destruction watching on after playing their part. He remembers fear, disappointment, shame, hope, adrenaline, triumph, sadness, and excruciating, unrelenting hunger.

He swallows.

“You are a mighty warrior, and a worthy adversary for the Overlord of Ice. However, I think I would rather have you as a…comrade…” His deep voice wavers. He is nervous and ashamed.

Nekomaru’s powerful brow furrows as he observes Gundham. It strikes Gundham then that, excusing the scars on his face and across his chest, he looks the least different out of all of the students.

He does, however, look terrifying for a moment, and then his face breaks into a grin.

“AHAHAHA! Don’t worry about it! You beat me fair and square! I knew the risks. I knew as a manager what needed to be done to protect my team. We as men knew what needed to be done! You want forgiveness? You already got it!”

His positive attitude is overpowering. His laugh rings in Gundham’s ears in a way that he would usually shrink from, but now it’s like music. Nekomaru smiles genuinely and sticks out his hand.

Gundham flinches. He looks at the outstretched arm and Nekomaru’s tough, but kind face. His palm itches, his heart rate picking up in what he begrudgingly identifies as slight panic.

_Pathetic._

He killed this man. He planned his murder and he carried it out. He ended his life, and regardless of whatever opinion Gundham used to hold of himself, and regardless of whatever ‘deal’ they had, he still _killed_ him. He never _regretted_ it, but he is heavy with guilt. An Overlord can still feel sentiment, it seems.

The least he could do is reciprocate his affection.

He takes Nekomaru’s hand, flesh not metal, and gives it a firm shake before he can run away from it. 

\- - - - -

They are given tasks to prepare for the New Year’s Eve party. Gundham resents being called ‘extra’, but Sonia says that it’s an opportunity to put their own aesthetic spin on things, and he soon perks up.

“It is impossible to ask one as noble and devious as I to… _cut out flower shapes_ …” He growls, glaring at the table in front of them, which Sonia has covered with materials to use to make decorations

“But flowers are traditionally happy! And this is a celebration after all!”

“Plant matter, like all life, withers and dies with the passing of the seasons. There is no joy to be found in such a frivolous reminder of the futility of existence.”

“Gundham. What did I say about staying positive?”

She has her princess face on. Its power over others never ceases to amuse Gundham, and yet having it suddenly trained on him reminds him that he might not be entirely immune to it himself…

_Cursed Ultimates…_

“Their colours are unfit for one of my demonic standing.”

“Ok! Then how about we do black as well as pink! And maybe blue and purple? We can make them festive _and_ hellish if you like!” She cheers up immediately. He feels the familiar and detestable tug of affection deep in his stomach at her wholehearted attempts at compromise for his sake.

_For your sake._

“Hmph. That sounds acceptable.”

“Wonderful! I’ll draw up some templates. How about you design some pentagrams and we can work them in? And we’ll need to go to Kazuichi for fairy lights!”

They spend the afternoon cutting, sticking and assembling decorations. The air is less humid than usual. He can hear birds singing nearby. Their conversation is light, quiet and easy. It is the most at peace he has felt since waking on the island.

\- - - - -

“Mortal!”

“Oh _man_. What do you want?”

“I have been charged with acquiring something from you; vessels filled with the lightning which you so regularly harness.”

“God, I almost preferred it when you were too traumatised to talk weird. I’m guessing you mean you need something electric?”

“Indeed. I need… _fairy lights_.” He says the term with embarrassment, and Kazuichi smirks.

“Right. I whipped some together the other day, just gimme a sec.”

One of the shops in Electric Avenue has been emptied to make room for Kazuichi’s makeshift workshop. Many tools and pieces of equipment are scattered around the metal workbench, and he turns from the guitar amp he is tinkering with to rummage around in a plastic container behind him. Gundham is not at ease in this environment. He has never been too fond of modern technology, other than the laptop he needed to run his website, and here he is on the third island with a classmate he doesn’t exactly trust, and who has a known dislike of him. He shifts awkwardly where he stands.

“Here you go. I hope these are filled with enough _lightning_ for you.” Kazuichi says scathingly. He thrusts a tangle of string lights into Gundham’s hands and goes back to his work.

Gundham turns to leave. He stops. He thinks back to what Sonia said a few nights ago.

_‘He is abhorrent, a fool, and a vicious one at that.’_

_‘No, he just hasn’t warmed up to you yet. You haven’t given each other a chance.’_

_‘I was under the impression that his -attentions- were an annoyance to you.’_

_‘They are. I mean, they were. He’s eased off a bit now. He’s changed, like we all have.’_

_‘…’_

_‘Look, Gundham, I didn’t like him at first either, but we’ve actually grown closer now he’s not being so strange with me all the time. I think it is very important that we all try to get along and work together. That means -all- of us.’_

Gundham has never been good at making friends. His eccentricities, his haughtiness and his festering insecurities meant he was alone for most of his childhood. He is on friendly terms with most of his classmates because he has to be, because they’ve been through so much and just got used to one another’s company. He never had anyone he willingly invited closer…until Sonia…

So what had Sonia done? How had she gotten under his skin and built a place for herself there? How had it all started?

With his Four Dark Devas of Destruction, he remembers now.

He clears his throat and turns back to face Kazuichi. The other boy looks up. There is a smear of grease across his forehead and his eyes are more hollow than they used to be. They are light brown without his pink contacts.

“So tell me, peon, how did you craft this contraption which shall harbour electricity?”

Kazuichi’s eyebrows draw together in confusion. His expression shifts to outrage as he thinks he is being insulted, then confusion again when he realises he is being asked a genuine question.

“Well I, uh…there was some wire that I thought could support a series circuit. That just needed some small changes, making it a complete loop, adding a plug, et cetera. Um, the uh, hard bit was finding the bulbs. I had to build a filament from scratch for a lot of them, and then strip them of paint so they’re all the same colour. That’s why they’re mostly different sizes.”

Gundham examines the string lights. He finds himself begrudgingly impressed.

“You constructed this entirely yourself?”

“Psh. Not _entirely_ , the wire was sort of already here…”

“And for a purpose as fickle as a party?”

“Well, you know, Miss Sonia asked for them and…”

The atmosphere descends; the surprisingly light conversation drawing to a halt in favour of awkward tension.

_If it cannot yet be confronted, then we must trample over it._

“This keeps your wicked hands busy? It is, for you, a hobby?”

“Uh, yeah…always has been…”

“To harness the power of a force so great as electricity…perhaps your manna level is not as low as I initially thought…” He manages through semi-gritted teeth.

Kazuichi’s mouth drops open in surprise.

“Did you just…did you just pay me a _compliment_?”

Gundham pulls his coat closer to him with the hand that isn’t holding the string lights.

“I stated a fact. If you take it as a compliment, as a lowly mortal like you _should_ , then that is on you.”

“Why did ya ask, Gundham?”

“What?”

“Why ask? Are you actually interested?”

“I was merely enquiring. I thought it was perhaps pertinent to make _conversation_.”

His face breaks into understanding.

“ _Oh_ , I get it. This is a joke, right? Tryna get me wound up about machines so you can laugh, right? _Please_ don’t tell me Miss Sonia put you up to this…” He tugs his beanie down his forehead further.

“She did, in a manner of speaking, but I have no intentions of humiliating you… _today_.” He says. Kazuichi peeks at him from under his hat.

“Then…why are you being _nice_?”

Gundham scowls and clears his throat.

“It is necessary for all humans on this infernal island to coexist within some delusion of peace. We must attempt to forge bonds in the furnace of hell.”

Kazuichi thinks for a moment. “Oh, like our suffering bringing us together, I get it. Wait, are you saying…you wanna be friends? Because think again, I ain’t _that_ stupid.”

“I am not offering you something as valuable as my comradeship, however, I am merely extending a courtesy. I assure you I have no ulterior motive.”

Kazuichi still doesn’t look convinced. He grates on Gundham’s nerves. He lacks the softness of Sonia. Kazuichi is, like her, emotional, passionate and flamboyant, but in a way that is all sharp edges and bright colours, and it irks Gundham greatly, even now. However, he will power through. He will do it for himself, and Sonia, and the future.

“What is it about me that you despise, other than my obvious power advantage that no doubt poses a threat to your very existence?”

Kazuichi drops the wrench he was holding onto the metal bench with a loud clang. He throws his hands up in exasperation.

“ _Everything!_ We’re like polar opposites, me and you. Your whole ‘dark overlord’ thing is _so annoying_ and I don’t know how you expect me to like you when you’re not even _you_ . You’re always strutting around, claiming you’re all-powerful, but you’re not! It’s all talk! I don’t like how you dress, how you treat me like I’m scum like everyone used to before I made something of a name for myself, how you insult me at every turn and call me stupid and weak and cowardly. I don’t like how you push your own insecurities onto me because you don’t wanna deal with them yourself. I don’t like how you are so _weird_ and yet the girl I love still likes you more than me. I don’t know how you’ve done it, but you got her when she was all I wanted and when I’d do anything for her and you barely look at her. I hate that you say you’re powerful even though you’re not, but you still show me up again and again by playing the good guy despite saying it’s against everything you stand for. I hate that you saved everyone and became a hero and I am just a coward who survived the Killing Game by some miracle. I don’t like you because I don’t like you. We’re too different.”

He’s out of breath by the end of it. Despite how much some of it stung, Gundham forced himself to listen to every word. He is no expert on human behaviour, but he has recognised that in the animal kingdom, many small animals will lash out at others when they feel threatened, or like they’re at a size disadvantage. Maybe that’s got something to do with this?

“I understand, Kazuichi. Or perhaps I think I do.” His words come out soft, surprising even him, and Kazuichi freezes at the sound of his name.

“On many accounts, I feel very much the same way about you. You vex me to no end, constantly irritate me, and your cowardice is something I despise in humans. However, I respect your craft, and your desire to cling to life, and how you have adapted to this new world much better than most…much better than I. I have no desire to debate semantics, and bringing Sonia into this is pointless, as I believe she should have little to do with our relationship. She is her own person, and whichever faction she sides with is her decision. However, now you have been honest, perhaps I could…” He forces the words out “…attempt to adapt my behaviour…so you find me less objectionable…”

Kazuichi flushes as pink as his hair. He stammers over his response a little, once more shocked by the turn the conversation has taken.

“Geez, I feel like a jerk now. When did you get so forgiving? Did the stampede knock some sense into you?” The sight of Gundham blanching at the memory causes him to backtrack. “Shit, too soon? Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that…well, I did but…I’m still sorry…”

“It is alright. An altered dynamic will take some getting used to.”

Kazuichi nods. His not-so-internal debate is written plainly across his face. He frowns at Gundham, then scans him head to toe, then swallows hard. This is one of the most humiliating and awkward things Gundham has ever done, but somehow, like with Nekomaru, a weight is shifting up and off his chest.

“You know what, we _should_ try and be nicer to each other.” Kazuichi says with a sigh of surrender. “You’re right about having to work as a team. We’re all each other has now, and we have a long road to ‘normal’ ahead of us. If you’re willing to swallow your pride and try and be friends, then I will too, I guess.”

“I never said friends.” Gundham hisses, but Kazuichi doesn’t look entirely fooled.

“Yeah, of course, never friends. Just…like...polite acquaintances then?”

“That sounds acceptable.”

“Sorry for calling you delusional and saying you were weak. That wasn’t cool.”

“And I am sorry for intimidating you so much that you were made more aware of your own inadequacies.”

Kazuichi huffs and rolls his eyes, but extends a hand to Gundham anyway. It is dirty with oil and the nails are bitten short. Gundham clears the final, tallest hurdle and takes it in his own, giving it a firm shake and then immediately letting go.

“The contract is sealed. Goodbye.” He turns to go.

“Yeah…s-see ya.” Kazuichi says hesitantly, like the pleasantry feels unusual in his mouth. He shouts after Gundham as he leaves: “Make sure Miss Sonia knows how hard I worked on the lights!”

\- - - - -

The fireworks punch their colours onto the inside of his eyelids. It is a forceful, invasive light that refuses to be ignored. It forces his eyes shut and then open wider, skipping their usual middle ground of a sullen squint. The night is muggy. The air is heavy and ripe, perhaps with new things to come.

_New year, same me. I do not think I recognise this man._

He faces the light and lets every last painful tendril force his eyes to water.

Sonia stands next to him, a little too close. He risks a glance, and then quickly looks away when it - whatever _it_ is - becomes too much to bear. Their decorations flutter erratically in the wind, but endure. There are appreciative mutters from his classmates around him. He feels both exposed and hidden at the same time and doesn’t quite know what to do with his hands. He crosses his arms tightly across his chest before he can accidentally reach for a Deva that isn’t there.

A tug on his sleeve; Sonia reaches up to whisper to him. “I bet the dark gods are much more likely to answer a challenge if it’s presented with fireworks! We should see if we can get more for our next ritual!”

He smirks, thinking of summoning circles drawn in the sand and different coloured candles carved with what runes he can remember. He thinks of hours and hours of quiet chanting and sitting with their eyes closed, facing each other. At this point, it’s a form of meditation. He mustn’t lose sight of his diabolical goals to the pull of relaxation.

“Indeed. As long as we ensure our minions remain a far distance away. Creatures of this wretched earth generally react poorly to thunderous sounds such as these.”

“Oh, of course! At least there are plenty of places for them to hide on these islands!”

Somewhere along the way he became able to speak to Sonia without blushing, or stumbling over his words like a fool, but when the glitter of passionate interest and determination returns to her eyes, and especially when she fixes their gaze on him, he starts faltering again.

Better to remain silent, perhaps.

\- - - - -

He’s halfway up a tree, an hour or so later, straining to get a closer look at the roost of bats hanging from its branches, when Sonia startles him with a wordless exclamation, and he almost falls off the stool.

“Oh my! Gundham, if it is truly the 1st of January, then we completely missed your birthday!”

“Hmph, what?”

“I was reminded because today is Hajime’s, despite how much he’d like to deny it. Yours is 14th December, so we missed it! What a shame…”

“How are you privy to such information?” He glares down at her, but slowly descends to stand beside her.

“Oh, I guess I read it in your file. You know…the e-handbooks had all our information on them…”

The usual tension of mentioning the Neo World Programme descends. Gundham wrestles with the concept that Sonia had considered such information important.

“It is of no matter. A being such as I exists beyond time. The day of the birth of my corporal form is inconsequential.”

“So you don’t celebrate?”

He swallows. “No.”

“Never?”

“Not that I can recall.”

“Oh, that is sad! My birthdays were always grand affairs, but the presents and party didn’t matter as much as getting to spend extra time with my parents when they were usually so busy. It isn’t about the anniversary so much as having a day that is _your_ day, you know?”

“My past birthdays have been spent in productive seclusion, with my beasts for company. I see no reason for celebration.”

He does not wallow in the thought of all the parties he was not invited to. He does not consider the fact he did not ask for presents because he knew his mother could not afford them. He does not dwell on his attempts to forget the date altogether, failing when only his teachers remembered and felt like reminding him. He _does not think_ on such matters, because they _do not matter_. That world is dead.

Perhaps he is not subtle. Perhaps his glower is losing its touch. Perhaps he has let his guard down and the fiend has wormed her way in, because it seems she can see what he is definitely-not-thinking about as clearly as if he had said it out loud.

“You can celebrate now though, if you like. You have friends -“

She reaches for him, apparently without noticing. He thinks about thick, menacing liquid bubbling away under a surface of congealment. He thinks about small fists and sharp nails. He thinks about accusatory fingers, the too-heavy weight of a hand on his shoulder, the sting of an explosion of anger on his cheek from a palm too big and rough. He thinks about a weak, trembling embrace that filled him with dread. He thinks about the fact that he can wear as many layers of clothing as he wants, but a single touch will slice him open.

And what if he poisons her?

He rips his arm away before she can reach him.

She realises what she has done a moment later. He watches her face turn from shock, to shame, to pity, to annoyance.

_Annoyance?_

“Gundham, is there something wrong?”

_You know what is wrong. Don’t test me, fiend. I can only hope I have become wily to your tricks._

“There is no need for your pity. I am perfectly content avoiding festivities and pleasantries.”

“Why won’t you let me touch you?”

“I-I have explained. It is for your own safety.”

“Yes, but you also said that I am of an appropriate astral level to withstand your toxicity, remember?”

He had said that. And he had meant it in every way other than practical.

“It is not worth the risk.”

She sighs. She looks tired and irate…he thinks. They are relatively new emotions on her, and he is still getting used to identifying them.

“I thought you trusted me.”

“…I do.”

“Then you must let me closer if you want to heal properly.”

“ _Closer?!_ ” The thought was preposterous. She was _far_ too close already, and only because he was weak.

“People need other people. Humans need contact, you must know that?”

He has read that somewhere. Humans have always been the least interesting and most alien of earth’s species.

He crosses his arms and says nothing.

“We all saved each other before, and now we must again. I know you like your boundaries, and that is fine, but you can’t go through life without touching people. I don’t think it is healthy.”

“It has gotten me this far; I am one of the few pathetic specimens of humanity left clinging to this terrible planet.”

“Because we brought you back! Because we care! You’ve already died once, alone and scared, do you want to do it _again_?!”

She seems as shocked by her own tone as he is. _Alone and scared..._ she’d said it like she knew, like it was obvious…

_Like it was true?_

“I don’t…this is to protect _you_ , Sonia…”

She sighs again, exasperated. “No, it’s to protect yourself. And from _nothing_ . You will close yourself off and lose track of everything else and right now you cannot afford to do that. We must progress and heal, so you need to let m- … _someone_ in…”

He grits his teeth.

 _Just ignore them, Tanaka. Just avoid them, and then they will leave you alone_.

_Stay out of my way, boy._

_I’m sorry Gundham, but maybe you should learn to fight back._

“You _presume_ so much, you fool! You have no idea the evil you are messing with. Your puny life could be snuffed out, and all to fulfil a _whim_?! All because you believe your own lie?! Insolence! Perjury! How dare you assume you know me at all!”

He half-growls, half-shouts his rebuttal. It is logically unstable and he can’t even follow his own argument, all he knows is his anger and panic have caused a dark smoke to lower across his vision and he wants to get as far away from her and from the others and from humanity as possible until he has calmed down and is in that terrible silence again.

Sonia takes several steps back after his outburst. Her eyes fill with tears. He bites down his guilt and stands up straighter, staring at her, his eyes hard and his stance closed. Let her cry. She is a fool like the others. He believed she understood him somewhat, but now she has shown herself to be just another human; as susceptible and presumptuous as the rest of them.

She doesn’t cry. She barely does that these days. He is annoyed that he knows that.

“I’m sorry Gundham, you are right.” She doesn’t sound very sorry. She sounds deflated. “It is not my place to force you into a situation you are not comfortable with. If you do not want me to touch you, it is within your right to refuse. I should never have made you uneasy. That was not a good thing for a friend to do, especially since all I want is for you to trust me.”

She looks a little menacing in the low light. The bats stir in the tree behind them. Gundham notices the shadows thrown into her eye sockets and under her cheekbones. She looks older. Her eyes are duller. The pulsing sensation under his skin is back and he doesn’t have the words to identify the emotion he feels, but it makes him want to both recoil and close the distance.

She looks at him, looks _into_ him, like she’s upset but still cares, like she’s chosen to swallow her own emotions for the sake of his, and that thought makes him quake inside.

_What would I have to do to get rid of you? How far could I push you before you give up? Would you ever?_

_No matter the cost, would I ever want you to?_

“I’m going back, Gundham. You clearly want to be alone now. Once again, I am very sorry for overstepping my boundaries. I will never ask anything like this of you again. However, it was you who told me to not give up on life, and I will take that to heart only if you do, otherwise it loses all weight. Living half-heartedly and not even trying to overcome your fear is an insult towards life. We must improve, and not give up. What is surviving if we are not living? And what is living if we do not have each other?”

He grinds his jaw to hide his hard swallow. She turns and starts to leave.

“I think you should consider if you ever want me to touch you, or if you ever want to touch me. You should think about it, because if the answer is no, that is perfectly fine. I will never again attempt to touch you, and we shall still be very good friends. If the answer is yes, then you must meet me halfway, because I am tired of trying. I’m sorry. I really am weak.”

\- - - - -

“Hey Tanaka, can I talk to you?”

_More of his infernal questions, no doubt._

“What is it, mortal?”

Hajime looks immediately apprehensive at Gundham’s tone, but regains his footing quickly. Gundham has seen a small rodent he cannot yet identify, but believes to be some sort of vole, scampering around in the undergrowth on the main island, and there is no reason for Hajime to be hunting the same animal, so he must be here because he followed him.

“I’m sorry if it’s private, but I’ve noticed something’s… _different_ …between you and Sonia…”

Gundham and Sonia have not been on best terms since the New Year’s party. He is almost grateful for the fact that she has taken to avoiding him because that means it isn’t just him avoiding her. She tries to hide it, but he can tell she is disappointed in him, and upset with herself, and the prickle of discomfort at the back of his neck that has been blooming since their conversation gets worse when he looks at her. He doesn’t want to think about what that means. He doesn’t want to have to talk to Hajime.

“What nonsense. The princess is as practical and insistent as ever. There is nothing to discuss. Now leave me to my solitude, fiend.”

He hoped it would be enough, but clearly he’s forgotten how persistent Hajime can be when talking to his friends.

“It’s just, you two were so close, but now you can barely stand to be in the same room. Did you guys have a fight?”

Looking at him, with his different colored eyes - a condition Gundham has spent most of his teenage years trying to artificially replicate - he is reminded of all of Hajime’s talents, brimming just below the surface. There is an unsettling knowledge in those mismatched eyes, a grasp of the situation that he doesn’t remember being there before. According to Komaeda, Hajime has every talent. The unnerving confidence of his gaze reaffirms this. Gundham drops his eyes, like a _coward_ , and focuses instead on a smooth oblong of blue glass hanging off a piece of string around Hajime’s neck. It’s new, he thinks, not that the garb of his human comrades matters at all to him. He considers, briefly, if Hajime usually wears it under his shirt, hence why he has never noticed it before.

“It is none of your concern.” He mutters.

“I’m just trying to help, Gundham. Half the stuff you worry about would be easily solved if you just talked about it.”

“Talking solves nothing, and there is no action required here, so leave me alone to my pursuits and I shall not cast your soul into the darkest corner of the Netherworld for your insolence.”

Hajime sighs. When he closes his eyes it looks like he’s talking himself out of rising to an argument.

“Yeah, I won’t be leaving. Clearly something is wrong. You can barely even look at me. I- I don’t mean to pry but you were just opening up, and now you’re back in your own head again. Tell me what happened.”

 _Damn to hell this ‘Ultimate Everything’_.

He feels suddenly pinned to the spot, suffocated by the way Hajime is looking at him. He thought he knew this boy. He supposes he never really did, the way none of them can be sure they really knew Nanami. The Simulation took all that authenticity with it.

“She is…vexed...as of late…” He manages.

“What did she say to you? If I had to guess I’d say things started being weird after New Years’.”

That was the exact night. Gundham could only stand the boisterous atmosphere for so long, so had slinked away with Sonia to look for bats.

He grinds his teeth, nostrils flaring. His arms are crossed so tightly he can feel them restricting his own ribcage.

“She…expressed annoyance that I…won’t let her come into contact with me…”

“Huh?”

“She considers it… _unhealthy_ …or perhaps even a personal slight. I cannot say what is brewing in her infernal mind. It remains shrouded in mystery, even to a higher being such as myself.”

“Wait, what? You guys are always ‘in contact’? You spend loads of time together!”

Gundham rolls his eyes. “ _Physical_ contact. Apparently the distinction is immensely important.”

Hajime’s eyes widen. “ _Oh_. You won’t let her touch you.”

“It isn’t a matter of _permission_ , Hinata, but of safety. I cannot be certain she will be able to withstand my personal poison.”

“Of course, but you said so yourself that she has a high enough…” mild panic flashes across his face as he scrambles for the right term “astral level? Have you changed your mind?”

Gundham is suddenly defensive. “Of course not, fiend! I never misjudge someone on that count! My verdict is absolute! However, it is unnecessarily treacherous territory.”

Hajime deflates a little. “I see. Well, have you thought about what Sonia’s feeling?”

Gundham’s brow furrows even deeper. “I have endeavoured to, but the human female remains a mystery. I cannot help but wonder if she has…ulterior motives…”

Hajime… _blushes_?! _Why is he blushing?_

“Oh, um…well maybe I shouldn’t be prying then…I mean, with girls it can be a bit…complicated with stuff like that…”

 _He has the upper hand back!_ “Indeed it can! Whatever she is plotting, perhaps to leech my powers, perhaps to trick me into lowering my guard so she can unseat me from my throne, perhaps to use her own powers to weaken me, it shall not work! I remain vigilant, and whatever evil she intends, I shall not allow it near me!”

“Oh,” says Hajime, suddenly more relaxed and possibly even amused, “ _That_ sort of ulterior motive.”

_What other sort would he be talking about?!_

“Gundham, have you considered that maybe Sonia wants to _help_ you?”

“So she says. Repeatedly. I don’t see how it would help, however.”

“Ok, then have you considered that she might just want to touch you?”

“Of course I have considered that! It is the evil _purpose_ behind the interaction that eludes me.”

“There doesn’t always have to be an ‘evil purpose’.”

“Why would she want to touch me _without_ an evil purpose?”

Hajime stares at him, blinking in disbelief.

“Because she likes you?”

“A- a ridiculous notion.” Says Gundham, his voice muffled as he tries, unsuccessfully, to hide his rapid blush with his scarf.

“Ok, let’s put it this way, do you want to touch her?”

“As I said, it isn’t _safe_ -“

“Yeah, I know, but do you _want_ to?”

 _Ah_. The prickle returns, probing at the back of his neck, pushing him towards a corner of his mind so underused he forgets it’s there. His Devas’ ears were so perfectly delicate, so fascinatingly intricate with their thin veins, the skin so fine it was translucent, twitching and flicking at the smallest sound. He used to stroke their ears, feeling the texture of the skin between his fingers. It was… _nice_. He likes stroking animals, because it means he has gained their trust. Skin or scale or fur, the beating heart underneath, the wonderful complexity and terrible, awesome potential in each one. Wild beasts that he has tamed, animals of the Earth that, after lots of time and work, trust him enough to let him touch them. It is a mutual respect; they like to be touched, and he likes to touch them. That is one thing he has always understood about humans; their desire to own pets, to _cuddle_ things that are furry or cute or domesticated.

Touching other people, though; that is a much bigger feat.

Touching _Sonia_ is something different entirely.

She isn’t an animal he can tame, and he doesn’t want to stroke or pet her like he does his beasts. It’s a different thought process altogether, and one that is completely unchartered waters. She reached for his hand, and he moved away. What if he hadn’t?

Sonia’s skin looks soft too, he supposes. Her hair is always well kept and she always looks clean and always smells pleasant. She’s warm in personality, and she is probably also warm in person. She is… _pretty_ …

She is very pretty, and he likes to try and trick himself into believing that he hasn’t noticed, that looking at her gives him as much pleasure as looking at anyone else.

He would touch Hajime, he supposes. He has, he thinks, in the Simulation. He touched Nekomaru, he even touched _Kazuichi_ , without much problem, so why can’t he make Sonia happy (or at least not-angry) and give her what she wants?

Maybe it’s her astral level. Yes, that must be it. Their combined power would be too much. He feels like they’d conduct each other, form an endless loop he couldn’t break away from, that they’d become dependent on each other, that if he were to start touching her, he wouldn’t be able to stop.

It’s an unfamiliar emotion; one that’s never been discussed with him, and one that he’s never really thought about before, despite the basic facts of it, despite the hormones of his early teenage years, despite the _loneliness_ , even despite his talent.

“I…I…”

He curses his own complexion as it flares up again. He stumbles over his words, so mortified he can’t speak. Hajime shows him mercy.

“Ok, there’s no need to worry. I get that maybe it’s _new_ for you? You don’t strike me as the type to have done this a lot before, but I think maybe Sonia sees that you need a hand, as it were? Maybe you need someone like her, someone you trust, to get you used to being alive again?”

Gundham’s expression is elsewhere, pillaging his memories for every instance, every twinge of desire, every _prickle_ that she stirred in him. He feels stupid and small; a boy cowering in the corner, fighting back tears, all over again.

 _Don’t worry, he’ll grow out of it_.

“Take your time, Gundham, but I think you should talk to her. Sonia has no ulterior motives. She is the Ultimate Princess after all; she is diplomatic, compassionate and only wants what’s best for her friends. She is not at all weak, but she is kind, and I don’t think you need to worry about her as a threat at all. She also really _really_ likes you, everyone can see it, and I think you like her too. Don’t waste that. If you explain to her how you feel or what you’re scared of, I’m sure she’ll be understanding.”

Hajime is right, of course, as much as Gundham is loathe to admit it. He knows, deep down, that Sonia wouldn’t hurt him intentionally. He’s more worried about himself than her; he has been known to cause a mess and make himself unwelcome. Would she forgive him?

He supposes he has a lot of thinking to do.

He sighs. “Thank you, Hajime. What sort of overlord cowers from that of which he is apprehensive? I shall take on board your advice.”

“Think nothing of it, I just want you guys to get back to normal.”

\- - - - - 

A few days later, he stands in her cottage, looking like it is taking all of his strength not to bolt. He has slipped his boots off at the door out of courtesy, but is otherwise dressed for an approaching storm; his scarf covering his mouth and his coat pulled tight.

She sits on her bed in the too-big shirt she uses as a nightgown. It barely covers her thighs, but somehow she feels the power of the exchange settle comfortably on her shoulders. She does, however, feel a little apprehensive with the responsibility and knows she must be careful.

“How can I help you, Gundham?”

“I am here to…apologise…”

“Oh?”

Instead of averting his gaze like she half expects him to, he fixes it on her, his expression rigid.

“I am a coward, Sonia. I…I wish fate had dealt a kinder hand. Since it has not, I must confront the demons that plague me.”

“You are _not_ a coward, Gundham.”

His scarf drops. His mouth pulls into a scowl.

“I am. I turned my back to the truth, and I dismissed those attempting to aid me. I am…weak…”

His words come slowly, mechanically, as if he has been rehearsing.

“…but I shall not flee any longer. I am uneasy, perhaps even afraid, but I must conquer this. It is unbecoming of one of my status.”

Sonia sits still and watches him. He fidgets. The crickets sing outside the cottage.

“It’s me that should apologise, Gundham. I should never have pushed when I knew it made you uncomfortable. That was unkind of me.”

“I did not come to hear your apologies. If I thought you had wronged me, you would know about it.” He says gruffly, firmly.

“So...you’ve come to me to help you, yes?”

He nods stiffly.

“Which means you’ve thought about what I said?”

“Extensively.” He mutters, looking a little sheepish.

She leans back on her hands. He balls his into fists and forces them to his sides, as if physically restraining himself from touching his scarf. As completely adorable as she thinks he is, this isn’t about her own feelings, this is about him, and how to make him better.

“Do you trust me?”

He observes her for just long enough that she is reminded how powerful his gaze is.

“Y-yes.”

She smiles warmly. “That’s good. That’s flattering. You must tell me if you don’t. And, most importantly, you must absolutely tell me if you feel uncomfortable. I will stop right away.”

The implication of her unspoken action causes him to blush as he nods his understanding.

“Take off your scarf, please.”

She doesn’t think Gundham need ever be seen without it, but for now, for this, she needs to see that it isn’t a lifeline for him.

After some clear internal deliberation, he reaches up to tug at his scarf, unwinding it until he can pull it off his neck. He spends a fraction of a second holding it, before dropping it on the ground beside him in a pile of purple wool.

He looks so strange without it that she blushes, as if he were naked. His throat is pale, the jut of his jaw casting shadows in the hollow of his throat, but otherwise he looks like any other boy his age. What he’s hiding isn’t external, she realises. She sees him swallow.

She stands and approaches him. His eyes, somewhere between apprehension and anticipation, run down the front of her shirt and settle briefly on her bare legs, before snapping back to her face. Both without shoes, she is aware of how much taller he is than her. He looks nervous, but the set of his brow is determined.

“And your coat, please.”

He gives a small nod, most likely to himself, and cautiously slips his arms out of his coat. He holds this for a second too, unsure, and she inclines her head towards his scarf on the floor. He drops the coat on top of it.

She remembers him wearing an overshirt and vest in the Simulation, but they’re not here, so he wears a simple white button-up. His left sleeve is rolled up to accommodate the bandage on his hand. It is even stranger seeing him without his coat.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you again.” She says, quietly, and from somewhere deep in her chest. She extends her hand.

He looks at it, and then at his own, uncovered. It seems like an eternity of edging closer before their fingers graze, and he clasps her hand in his.

There are no fireworks, no lightning, no vivid hallucination or dream sequence, and she doesn’t drop dead from poison. She holds his hand and squeezes it. His hand, his skin - _Gundham is touching her - brave, bizarre, brilliant Gundham is touching her_ \- and she knows it was important that he crossed the gap of his own volition. His hand is cool, his skin is rougher than she expected, his grip is strong, and so _so_ real.

“May the next time we meet be in Hell.” He says. His voice is low and soft at the edges as he powers through his nerves.

She stays like that for a few moments, adjusting and letting him adjust. She wraps her other hand around his, too, so she is _holding_ the handshake. She inches her touch up, past his wrist, along his forearm, until she is lightly gripping his bicep. She comes back to the present in time to check his face for discomfort. He is watching her very intensely, like he watched the hermit crab on his palm, and there is a light flush along his cheekbones. He looks... _curious_...

She reaches for his other hand and he gives it to her. Every touch is amplified because of how long it has been denied. He also seems hyper aware of the exact points of contact, and he watches her movements as if powerless. The bandages are rough against her skin.

She pulls his wrapped hand towards her as she steps even closer. She has to crane her head up a little at this distance to look him in the face properly. She tentatively and ever-so-slowly moves his hand to her side and settles it over her waist.

His blush is much stronger now, and she can feel how tense he is, but he doesn’t pull away, just watches her like he’s transfixed, like he’s genuinely surprised that she hasn’t burst into flames.

Once she’s certain his hand will stay there, she moves hers away and out towards him. She hovers for a moment, waiting for him to flinch or speak, but he doesn’t, so she rests her palm against his chest, over his shirt, over his heart. She does not press hard, but if she did, she has a feeling she would be able to feel it beating beneath her fingertips.

_Alive…alive…alive…_

Something seems to hit her then. That he’s warm because his heart is beating, his chest rises and falls under her touch because he is breathing, he blushes because he is thinking, he is tense because he is living.

And she knows all this because she is touching him. She is _finally_ touching him.

Tears pool in her eyes. She remembers him, broken and bloody, a shell of a boy who cared too much and showed too little. He looked small then, like the child he was, but he isn’t small now. They’re both grown. Innocence has gone, except the innocence of a touch like this.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

He looks mildly horrified by her tears as they spill silently down her cheeks before she can stop them. He looks like he will pull back in fear, probably thinking he’s done something wrong, but she can’t let him, not now they’re so close.

She pulls him into a hug and cries quietly into his shoulder.

He is startled, but after a few moments returns his hands to her waist, very tentatively. She grips him tight, feeling as much of his presence as possible, and presses her face into his shoulder. He smells like sawdust and incense. He is tall and concrete in her arms, and feeling him eventually relax and lean into the embrace himself, like he’s been waiting too, like they’ve been screaming across a vacuum at each other, only makes her want to cry harder.

As he holds her, his palms against her lower back, his nose pressed into her hair, she feels him breathe, and it sounds like a sigh. She feels relief too. She thinks of the serving boy with the floppy hair who had smiled at her in the garden. She thinks of the son of the royal diplomat when they were 13, and how clammy and wonderful his hand felt in hers when she bridged that gap for the first time. She thinks of a friend from childhood, the child of a Novoselic lord, with her forest green eyes and the way she’d whisper things like a secret to Sonia. She thinks of the way she kissed her, when they were fifteen and love was new, and how Sonia had kissed her back. She thinks of firsts, of love, of contact between humans, of how it could help, of how it _does_ help.

“I’m- “ he tries. It’s like the cogs in his head are jammed, like there’s something forcing its way down his throat and towards his heart, and it feels uncomfortable, but it _feels_ …

He remembers the dark clouds and the prickle and the loneliness, and he remembers the crack that Sonia made, the weak spot, that she’d slowly and devoutly chipped away at. And, despite all his better instinct and history and hindsight, despite knowing it might end in destruction, despite the terrifying idea that she might succeed, he _wanted_ her to get there. He can admit that now; she only managed to get under his skin because he’d let her.

He... _does_ trust her. That in itself is unexpected and probably idiotic, but he appears to be a slave to his emotions, and trust like this, rare and dangerous, feels like a drug.

She pulls away from him. Her eyes are red and wide. Her smile is watery.

“I’m sorry, Gundham.” Maybe she notices how his hands haven’t moved from her waist, maybe she doesn’t. “It’s only that…when we woke up…I thought I’d never see you again…”

The words burst from her like she’s been holding them in, and she grins, broad and ecstatic, and he still doesn’t fully understand why.

She touches his shoulders, his arms, his chest, his collarbone. He feels his skin rise in a shiver but it isn’t unpleasant so he bites back his need to flee from touch and lets her. She waits before touching his cheek, her fingers stalling in mid-air, her lips parted.

She searches his face. He looks restrained, almost in pain, with his eyes so dark and his brow set. He has recovered from the initial shock, and now the storm clouds gather.

“There is no need for you to do this, Sonia.”

She pauses. “I –“

“You needn’t blacken yourself for the sake of my wretched soul. The poison is nothing I cannot deal with…”

She retracts her hand and frowns. She can’t quite believe what she’s hearing.

_He thinks this is a sacrifice…_

“What gave you the impression that this is a burden for me?”

“W-well…”

“I want to help. But…also, selfishly, I want to help like this. I want to touch you, and for you to want me to touch you.”

“I-“ he has gone firetruck red. He looks utterly confused. Her heart breaks a little. “ _Why_?” He asks, his voice cracking.

His eyes are gray and tired and bottomless. They are wide now, where they are usually narrowed and sullen. They glitter in response to hers. She sees no malice in the self-proclaimed Overlord of Ice now, nothing but bewilderment and tentative feeling in those eyes. She chuckles to herself.

_He really doesn’t know. The most self-possessed man alive, and yet it never crossed his mind._

“Because I adore you, Gundham.”

She hears the statement take the breath from him. She really thought he would have picked up on this by now; she is unafraid and unsurprised when she voices the true nature of her emotions, but it clearly floors him. His grip on her waist loosens to almost non-existent, and she feels every muscle in his body tense once more.

She can barely restrain herself. She presses her face into the crook of his neck and suddenly his grip is back on her hips like a _vice_...

“I think you are wonderful. I think you are strong and brave and caring and resolute and interesting and brilliant and I want nothing more than to help you. I want to make you feel the way you make me feel.”

She can feel his breathing ragged against her own chest. She is so close to him that her pulse skyrockets in response. How long has she been waiting to be held like this? How long has she been patient? Sonia has never had to wait in her life, has never had to pursue anyone after expressing initial interest, but he is so precious, so completely oblivious, that she settles comfortably into a more active role.

She compulsively presses her lips to his throat. His heartbeat races beneath her kiss. She kisses him again and again; light, gentle contact that he could pull away from easily, but she feels nothing but his quickened breath and tightened grip. His jaw tenses under her lips as she mouths at the hard line of it, which she has been so fascinated with since she met him.

She feels desperate, as if the last months of friendly hugs and supportive hands from the others meant nothing, as if she hasn’t been touched for years. She feels as if every point of contact sparks and jolts into life. She feels like they are conducting each other.

She kisses his throat, then his jaw, then slowly presses a kiss to his cheek. His complexion is like a forest fire, as she expected, warm under her touch and with his eyes wide but heavy. Her arms slide from his shoulder blades to his face. She traces the lines of his cheekbones, his nose, his brow, his chin. She always thought he was cute, but life has made him handsome. She knows he wouldn’t truly believe her if she told him. She presses the tips of their noses together. She breathes him in. He breathes her in. She kisses him lightly on the lips.

The contact is a few seconds at most, but is so painfully tender that she might cry with relief. Gundham doesn’t move, he barely breathes, but he lets her do it, and his lips part slightly when she pulls away. She can feel his hands on her lower back, firmly, like he’s forgotten he’s touching her there. He looks mildly terrified but also transfixed, and he blinks sluggishly, like he’s processing. She leans in again, slowly, because as desperate as she feels, she will give him room to think, to adjust, and to decline if he wants to. When their lips meet again, he is more yielding than the first time. She presses a little harder, with more confidence, and it becomes a proper kiss.

It is sweet, like a kiss from one of her favorite Japanese romance dramas, and feeling him relax is more rewarding than she could have ever imagined. She takes the lead, not pushing too hard, not taking too much in her haste, and when he eventually moves against her a little, warming up to this new kind of touch, she holds back a sigh.

She pulls away to kiss his cheek again. She mustn’t overwhelm him, she thinks, but when she sees his expression she considers revoking that thought. He is breathing heavily, and for the first time she sees what she thinks is _hunger_ in his eyes, like a dam creaking and groaning before it breaks.

She reaches for the buttons of his shirt.

“May I?” It comes out a lot breathier than she expected.

He swallows heavily, but nods, not taking his eyes off her.

He is frozen in place, and they both seem as if in a trance, as Sonia opens the buttons of his shirt one at a time, and he just watches her face. The skin underneath is smooth apart from the occasional raised scar (a common addition to most of her classmates’ bodies). His blush spreads down past his clavicle, but the skin of his stomach is pale. She doesn’t know why she is surprised at his lean build; she has been animal tracking with him and it is an activity that requires an unexpected amount of physical fitness.

She presses her palm to his chest. He tenses visibly at the contact: a ripple down to the waistband of his pants.

“How do you feel?” She asks. Her voice is a low murmur.

He takes a moment before replying. “Exposed…” he says finally. His voice is deliciously rough.

With some degree of difficulty, she drags her attention away from all the newly visible skin to look at his face again.

“Of course. That’s good, I think. I mean, you should, that’s the point…” She’s losing track of her rational thinking at this point. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“Y-yes.”

“Would you like me to stop?”

He swallows again. She has a suspicion that his mouth is dry.

“No.”

“Then, perhaps we should level the playing field a little?”

With more confidence than she feels, she steps back and pulls her nightshirt over her head. She discards it with Gundham’s clothes and stands before him in only her underwear, having removed her bra for bed.

He attempts, and fails, to stifle the strangled noise he makes at the sight of her. His cheeks flare up red again and he immediately averts his gaze. His embarrassment lessens her own.

“Is there something the matter?” She asks. He is staring firmly at the ceiling beams, so focused that she’s surprised it hasn’t caught fire.

“Of course- I mean…n-no it is simply th-that…” His words are mumbled and hurried and he reaches down to his neck only to find himself more lost when he remembers that he’s not wearing his scarf and there’s nowhere to hide.

“There’s no need to be proper or polite. You can look at me, if you want to.” She says, a lump in her throat, thinking what her next move will be if he _doesn’t_ want to.

“It wouldn’t be…” He manages.

“I’d like it if you did. I’d like us to look at each other, if you want to…”

Another flush sweeps across his cheeks, and forces his eyes back to her. She sees him swallow hard before letting his gaze drop down to her chest, her stomach, the skin covered by the cotton of her underwear, and her bare legs beneath.

“Maybe we’re meant to be looked at…to be touched...it is only flesh, Gundham…”

He acclimatizes to the situation somewhat. He stops forcing himself to _stare_ and starts to _look_ , until only a lingering awkwardness remains, and he blinks, mesmerized, in the low light. He actually _reaches out_ of his own volition, after some obvious mental debate, and runs his unbandaged fingers through the tips of her hair, pulling it over her shoulder, as if he is fascinated with it. _Only flesh_ …but she feels her stomach stirring, her nerve ends fizzing, the skin of her shoulder _burning_ from where his fingers brushed it as he releases her hair, her lips cold with the loss of his touch…

She covers his hand with hers and holds it against her shoulder, where it would rest naturally if he weren’t so self-conscious. She watches him watch her do it.

“What do you think?”

She meant about the touch, but when he stares at her hair, the skin of her shoulder, the curve of her chest and the dip of her waist and says “you are beautiful” as if under a spell, she feels the floor shift under her.

“So are you.” She says, and when she moves closer he shifts his arms open subtly as if to let her, as if guided by something magnetic. “ _So are you_ ,” she mumbles again, against his mouth this time.

He doesn’t quite kiss her, but he does move to meet her when she leans in. She coaxes his lips apart, deepens the kiss, her pulse thumping in her head, feeling suddenly hot and overwhelmed despite her state of undress. He is hesitant with his tongue, but when she touches it with her own he makes a soft, shocked noise in the back of his throat.

When her bare chest collides with his, Sonia pressing into him to get closer and Gundham holding her there, something slots into place. His touches are clumsy but he’s getting bolder, sliding his fingers through her hair, tracing the bumps of her ribcage, feeling her pulse hammering in her slender neck. Her hands are everywhere too but she struggles to track her own movements, totally lost in a kiss that gets messier and more heated with every passing second. He is clearly inexperienced, but he learns quickly, and when she nips his lip he does the same to her but harder, and draws a low hum from her.

They’re unsteady standing upright with their newfound vigor, Sonia scratching lightly at his chest then sliding her arms around his neck. She presses the whole length of her body against him, relishing in the feel of his flushed skin, his thudding heartbeat, and can’t stop the push of her hips into his. She is shocked at the reaction it gets; he goes rigid and pulls away from her lips and she is just about to apologise when he takes her by the shoulders, turns her round and pins her against the wall. She feels the heat skid down her spine and sizzle below her stomach. When she shifts she feels herself slick between her thighs.

_But now is not the time for that._

There is an intricate scar on his collarbone where someone, possibly Gundham himself, has tried to carve a character into the skin. She cannot make out what it was supposed to be with just her fingertip so she tries with her tongue instead, but the thudding of her heart and his deep breathing in response doesn’t help her concentration.

She’s not sure how long they’re kissing for. She goes into a strange haze where time isn’t really important. Gundham presses his nose to her jaw as he kisses her neck, like he is trying to cover as much of her skin with his own as possible, and when he bites at her juncture of her shoulder and she gasps, he actually _growls_. This seems to make him remember himself, and pulls away, looking mildly horrified.

“I- I am sorry…I –“ He manages. It’s the closest she has ever been to seeing Gundham without his overlord persona, which has, at this point, become most of his personality.

He looks very vulnerable, with his shirt hanging open, his lips bitten, his cheeks red and his hair falling down over his face in disarray from her fingers. He’s always so composed, so put together, but now he looks somewhat unravelled. She wants to _devour_ him.

But no. Not now. She may not be a virgin, but she has a feeling this was Gundham’s first _kiss_ , let alone anything else. She must put a stop to this before it gets out of hand and escalates too quickly.

So she smiles, and laughs: happily, breathily, a little shakily.

“No, no _I’m_ sorry. I didn’t mean to get this...carried away. Do you feel any different?”

He swallows. His lips are flushed and still-damp when he licks them. She takes a deep breath to try and slow her own heart rate.

“Yes. Incredibly.”

“Good different?”

“…I think so.”

“I meant to start slowly, but I got caught up in it, I apologise.”

“Don’t - please, do not apologise…I suppose I needed that…” His voice is gravelly and he still looks a little confused by his own actions.

_Oh, she’ll be able to think about little else when she’s alone tonight..._

“Well, maybe we should just… _talk_? Nothing serious just…a talk. I would like to hear about the bats, if you’ve found anything else out?”

His eyes instantly engage. “Of course! You were not present when I brought them fruit.”

“I was not!” Sonia says brightly while slipping her nightdress back over her head. Her body is still humming, but it’s easy enough to get lost in conversation and distract herself. She sits on the bed and pats the spot next to her as an invitation.

When Gundham hesitates briefly, she smiles again.

“I promise I won’t pounce on you, I’ve just missed your company these last few days.”

“I have…missed your company also…” He mumbles, in a wonderfully easy display of honesty, buttoning his shirt up. She notices he doesn’t reach for his coat or his scarf.

“And we can kiss more later, if you’d like.”

He blushes at her bluntness, but says nothing and sits next to her. She just wants to make sure he knows she isn’t going to pull away now she’s crossed the line she’d been waiting to.

They talk about bats and nighttime until Sonia feels her eyes close, lulled by his voice. She starts awake a short time later, her head in his lap. He is impossibly tense, like every muscle is straining not to move and wake her up, but he still manages to return her smile.

\- - - - - 

_Now is the time for life. Being brave is much harder when you can’t see the monster. I didn’t understand before, but leading and ruling aren’t the same thing. I didn’t understand before, but living isn’t just surviving, and Despair isn’t just the absence of a future._

_Forgive me, mother and father. I was too weak to stop her. I succumbed, but at least I can assuage the guilt with the knowledge that we won after all. Hope endures where Despair gets bored. You would be proud, I think. Maybe, if we were a normal family, you’d appreciate the woman I’ve become, the evil I fought, the friends I’ve made who have become my new family, and this boy I’ve met…this strange boy who’s as lost as me…_

They are a push and pull of incompatibility. She opens wide and he closes up. He stands firm and she moves around. She demands everything and he seems to need nothing. She speaks her mind and he twists his own into incomprehension. She wants people and he wants solitude. He feels what he cannot express and she expresses what she cannot feel. He is a martyr and she is a survivor.

And yet, it does not seem impossible for them to meet in the middle and shake hands over the gap. He must take from her what she needs to give him. She will speak when he cannot. He will be constant when she doesn’t know where she is. They’re both rulers, it will clearly just take some time to merge their kingdoms.

And they do. He’s as sullen and incomprehensible as ever, brash and abrasive and then quiet and unreadable, and she’s as bubbly and optimistic, as socially clunky and loud, as ever, but they _do_ meet in the middle. Kazuichi learns to accept what Sonia boasts loudly through public affection and what Gundham fails to deny when asked. He learns to move past his infatuation because he has no other choice. As with the others, forgiveness and growth is difficult, but not impossible.

To touch, Gundham realizes, is to assert yourself in the lives of others, to reassure yourself that you are present and active, to attach yourself to reality when it seems ephemeral and evasive. To offer touch is to show compassion or concern, to warn or support, to protect or to harm - for good or bad it is essential. To accept touch is to allow himself the right to his own skin, to wear his survival with certainty and pride, to reach that intoxicating terror of _trust_. To touch is to incite an animal instinct in him that he has successfully quelled since his infancy. When Sonia touches him, a chasm of terrible longing yawns in his chest, like a single brush of fingertips can cleave him open. Touch, physical proof of another person against his own person, reveals to him the undeniable truth that he is not alone, that he need never be alone again, that he can decide for himself how much or what kind of touch he wants. It reveals to him the loneliness at the core of him. A loneliness that he treasured as a child, thinking that it made him unique, interesting, elevated, as if he had broken the chains of humanity and ascended to a plane where he was so enlightened to not need something as trivial as companionship. Now it is practically a part of him, woven into his persona, his talent, his future and his hope. He needn’t change himself all at once, but he cannot deny that loneliness feels _bad_ , and trust, love, friendship - all the other warm, delicate, enduring things that he once dismissed as fickle and pathetic - feel _good_.

When Sonia touches him, he feels small and weak and real and alive. When Sonia touches him, he is made flesh, in all its brilliance and triviality. When Sonia touches him, he wants to touch her back.

That is the centre of the realisation: to accept and offer touch are not mutually exclusive. They feed off one another like an ouroboros. 

They’ve all lost something they cannot quite name. They trip over phantom limbs, jump at their own shadows, reach thoughtlessly for a memory and return empty-handed. As their grown bodies fill out, their wounds heal, and their minds adjust, the layers of consciousness become more clear; easier to separate, easier to ignore. It is not as simple as saying ‘this was me, that was not me’, but one by one they find a way to compartmentalise, to accept, to forgive, and to move on.

They find themselves again in each other. When their friends stumble, they move to support them, which means becoming firm and physical themselves. To see, to touch, to perceive, acknowledge and accept one another, to forgive before they've truly forgiven themselves, makes the suffering worth it. Maybe. Almost. Sometimes. Mostly.

They are reaching in the dark, but at least they are facing forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gundham is a touch-starved vegan and Sonia is pansexual - you can't change my mind.
> 
> If you liked this one, you might wanna check out my other DR fic 'Cabin Fever'.


End file.
